


Taking Less

by Hazel_Inle (orphan_account)



Series: Trust Me [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Gay Male Character, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Romance, Slow Build, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Hazel_Inle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>***ABANDONED***</p><p>Mick Mundy had been ostracized all his life. When he takes a job a world away from home to escape the critical stares and comments of his fellow countrymen, he believed he could finally be himself in a desert with his sniper rifle.</p><p>That was before he met a certain suave Frenchman in a broken down elevator, who crushed that dream with only a single introduction. Mick finds out that after one signs the papers for Team Fortress Industries, he was stuck there for five years. He knew these five years with spy would be agonizingly long.</p><p>What he didn't expect was for five years to not be long enough. </p><p>(Rating may change as story goes on)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lights Out

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, we have hit the two story mark! This is exciting! For me, anyway, I don't know what you guys feel... 
> 
> Yeah, same universe as Giving More, but a different couple now has the spotlight. This series can be read in any order, doesn't matter.
> 
> I've wanted to write a sniper/spy fic for so long!
> 
> As always, * are notes at the bottom.

Mick was awoken by the sound of the cheery bell that signaled an equally chipper flight attendant's announcement, though the bell was by design while her voice was coffee induced to cover her exhaustion that matched the passengers after a 15 hour flight over the Pacific Ocean. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are ten minutes from our destination, please return to your seats-" 

At this Mick stopped listening. He dropped his head against the closed window, feeling his neck scream at him in protest at the action. Curse his forgetful mind in forgetting a vital travel pillow. That aside, he felt like he was deprived of any rest, even though he fell asleep twenty minutes after take off. All he had to do was put on his sunglasses, tip his hat low, slouch down, lean his head against something, and he was out. The flight was a pleasant one, which he was thankful for. He never drank or ate anything in the entire duration, sleeping though it all. Never even needed to use the restroom. Mick was against using the restroom on an object in motion. Thus, he took measures to avoid it. 

That didn't help his rumbling stomach, however. He frowned at the sound and resolved to find something small in one of the cafes an airport no doubt had. Maybe even get a coffee. But _not_ that Starbucks junk. They opened one of those abominations in the town thirty miles away from his home in the nearest town and it closed within a year*. Honestly, if they didn't jack that stuff up with fake syrups and overly priced whipped cream, maybe they wouldn't have failed. What was it about Americans and Starbucks? The stuff was disgusting! Overly sweet and syrupy, it killed the natural flavors! Insult to coffee, that's what Starbucks was. 

Back to the present, the flight attendant hung up the radio and all was quiet minus the whirring of the plane engines and a few murmurs from passengers. Mick reached into his pocket and thumbed his ticket for the train to Teufort, making sure it was still there. All had gone well so far; didn't want to let that record slip now. 

This was his chance. His chance to finally be himself and not worry what others would think of him. In Australia, he was always the odd one. Even in his family, he didn't fit in. He never looked like his parents, other than the long face she shared with his father, but that was hardly a trait that wasn't common among people in general. 

He had blue eyes; his mother and father had green and brown, respectfully. He was tall and lanky, more leg than torso. His mother was a short squat thing and his father was perfectly proportional. His mother and father admonished violence, while he thrived in the bush, hunting more than just animals. And worst of all... 

His father had a mustache. Bushy, strong, and full of character, the 'stache was magnificent and upheld the Australian science to it! Mick tried to grow one, but even with his thick dark colored hair and copious amounts of it elsewhere, the hair on his face _refused_ to grow any longer than a stubble. This was more or less something that other adults picked on him for. Here he was, a skinny and abnormally tall oaf that stuck out like a sore thumb in all family reunions. 

Honestly, he never felt more alone than being in a room with all of his supposed perfect cousins and other members. His dad never made any comment in front of the family members, nor did he respond to any of the unintentionally cruel comments that people made towards his son. and he never defended him either. His mother, however, did. 

She was a woman that had a loving disposition and had the countenance of a grandmother, though her one son of 33 never even kissed a girl before, much less have any kids. If they lived in a neighborhood instead of the middle of the outback desert, Mick was sure that she would be the that woman who would bake goods and have all the kids over until the house was full of life and children. She would be the go to person for emotional support, tea, gossip, and maybe a second mother or grandmother. 

His father, however, was a man who liked to keep to himself. There wasn't too much of a romantic bone in his body. He was a man's man, and unfortunately, in this case, supporting his son was not among the things he considered to be a part of his parental duty. That was his wife's job. _His_ job was to toughen his son up. 

This caused a bitter seed to be planted in Mick, and right before he left for the airport, his father exploded on him, calling him a crazed gunman. Mick took great offense to that, and the argument lasted all the way from dinner till he had to leave. It was never resolved, and resulted in Mick slamming the front door and not looking back. 

But because he never looked back, he didn't see his mother sobbing on the couch and his father crushed with worry for the safety of his child, muttering sadly, "a father isn't supposed to bury his son." 

Mundy nearly cried while waiting for his plane, but swallowed his pain and regret. There was no turning back. Not now. 

The plane landed smoothly and without problem. His bus left on time, a black coffee was in his hand, and he had a train car all to himself. That was literally the best feeling he had in a while. 

Mundy smiled to himself and slinked down in his seat, the sun over the desert canvas that was his window. It was summer here in the northern hemisphere, dry and hot. Two things he was used to. _Another nap was in order_ , he thought. 

When he woke up, the train was pulling into the station. He stood up and cracked his back, making sure his clothes were in order and didn't make him appear that he was a bum on the street. He stepped off the train with a confident stride, where he met miss Pauling. He had spoken to her twice over the phone; once for the job, second for details of the flight and how to send things overseas. 

She was exactly as he pictured her. Not necessarily correct in features, but more of stature and attitude. To him that's all that mattered in a person. He was judged too often by his appearance that he promised himself to never do so to others. And he kept that promise. 

This Miss Pauling introduced herself primly, but was friendly, nevertheless. He had to say, he liked her truck. It was worn with use and wasn't one of those spiffy luxury cars that people babied and worried over all the ruddy time. If there was a scratch on his vehicle, Mick wasn't concerned. So what if he had a stain on his seat? That was life, and a stain was just a memory. 

The building they arrived at had the same disposition of a stagnant multimillion cooperation. Mick felt small and unimportant next to it, even though he was 6'3". He followed the small and non talkative woman into the lobby, where Mick was smacked in the face with titanium, steel, chrome, and silver. 

Everything was so god damned grey! Shiny, but _grey_. Oh look, they threw in a couple of shrubs and a fountain. How _natural_. This was just one reason Mick could never take an office job. It was so closed in, and nothing about it embraced the wonderful earth he was put on. Was that hippyish just now, yeah. But he wasn't into all the "take this drug to expand your mind" or "peace! Make love, not war! Free love!" or "save the trees!"  No, he was just outdoorsy. However, their sense of style wasn't all that bad. Leather, and tassels weren't horrendous. Neither were vests. However, brightly colored bell-bottom pants and T-shirts with peace signs? No thank you. 

Two men were in the lobby other than a very freaked out receptionist, who seemed to be overworked and very new. She was hiding behind the tall counter that she sat in front of, eying the two males near the entrance with trepidation. 

One male was in a WWII helmet that covered his eyes and was shouting about the other male. Said other man was a black Scotsman with one eye in a kilt. Mick knew that usually nothing went under a kilt, and prayed that was not the case. 

"You are cheating! You are disgracing Sun Tzu with your despicable treatment of a noble game of war!" The American man shouted, throwing his fist into the air, his helmet bobbing around in his head. 

"This isn't a game of war, lad! _IT’S GO FISH_!"  The Scotsman argued back, pointing at the pairs of cards sitting on the floor between them to reiterate his point. Miss Pauling strode around the pair, ignoring them. Mick did the same, deciding that the two sitting on the ground were...er... _special_. 

The petite female in purple showed him to the elevator, pressing the button for up. It didn't register, so she pressed it again. It still did nothing. A small groan, and she slammed it with her fist, her perfect bun loosening up with a few fly-aways and her glasses tilting as a result. The button lit up from her threatening blow. Mick backed away a little 

The door opened with an eerie grown of protest, and Mick wasn't so sure about getting in that thing. Despite what the building initially looked like, he was sure if he got in that thing, it was going to fail. It was his type of luck. So far the day was fine, but the stars above him just _loved_ to mess with him. 

Pauling eyed him curiously. 

"Mister Mundy, is everything alright?" She asked, straightening her glasses. The tracker let out a huge sigh and nodded, gaining some sense. He had no idea where he was going, and if she was taking the elevator, she couldn't lead him. Besides, the floor they were going to may be rather high.

 As he predicted, they were heading to floor 16. While Mundy could climb stairs, he highly doubted he could make it to level 10, much less 16. He sighed and waited as the elevator moved steadily up the shaft, the floors passing by at a solid speed. At floor 7, it gave a shudder, but kept going. Miss Pauling didn't flinch. Mick assumed it was normal. It didn't help his nerves, though. He felt cramped in this small space with this woman, small as she was. 

When they reached the destined floor, Mick practically ran out of the silver death box, Pauling following him. He glared at the offending miniature traveling room, before being led into a meeting room. 

"Wait here while I get the files, Mister Mundy." She said, closing the door. He sighed and sat in a chair. So, he got to be alone for a while. 

Back at home in the outback, he had the privilege to be a tracker, and because of that, he was able to have a life of almost complete solitude with nothing to comfort him but nature himself. He was at home in the woods and desert, and could find a man in just two hours on a good day. Three on a bad one. 

This job was to be entirely different. He was going to find a nest and sit there while picking off enemies. What was the point of this war again? Something about brothers? Whatever, the money was a sweet deal, added onto the fact he could write to his parents and keep in touch. Furthermore, he had a set of woods nearby with untouched game for nearly 10 years. It was perfect. 

Pauling entered the room and placed all the files in front of his seated form. 

"Sign here" she said, pointing to a dotted line and producing a pen. He did so and was about to leave when she stopped him. 

"Hold on, Mister Mundy. We are not finished, I'm afraid." She said, flipping the page. Mick sighed and sat down again. 

"Fine, but don't call me Mr. Mundy. That was me dad." He muttered, flipping though and signing every dotted line that said "signature" prior to it. It took a while, but not so badly that his hand ached. 

She gave him a set of papers, and told him it was the particulars of his job. The rules and restrictions, if you will. He sighed and walked away. Reading was not his strong suit, but it would have to do. If there was one thing that his job as a tracker taught him, it was that he always should read the fine print. 

You never knew when a client might put it into the contract that you have to die once the deed is done. 

He found a set of stairs and frowned at the blaring red warning sign. 

"If opened, alarm will be triggered." 

Mick grumbled under his breath and resigned to take the damned box. He tapped the button a couple of times before it worked. Surprisingly enough, the elevator opened as soon as the light came on. He entered and rested his back against the wall, praying that all would go well. 

As the elevator doors closed, he got the same feeling he had before of being too cramped in one space. However, he was alone in this silver box, so why- 

There was a violent screech, a jolt of the car, the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, and the lights died. For half a second, Mick panicked and thought he had gone blind, but then the emergency light turned on, it painting everything in crimson red light. He heard a groan and his head whirled to the side, seeing another man sprawled onto the floor, his neck bent at an awkward angle at the juncture between the floor and the wall. 

He was dressed in a fairly expensive suit and dress pants. His shoes were polished and proper looking. He would've looked like a business man, a client that may hire Mick, but the only thing that killed the image was a balaclava over his face, hiding his features, but not his expression of pain and shock. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut as his teeth hissed in pain as he tried to turn his head. 

"You alright, mate?" Mick asked, concern bubbling in his stomach. The masked man squinted open his eyes to stare up at the bushman awkwardly. 

"Nothing broken, I think." He murmured, the French accent taking Mick by surprise. Yet again, if they hired men from Australia, what was to stop them from hiring others from France, Italy, or China? 

The stranger made a move to try and get up, but Mick placed a hand on his shoulder. 

"Stay there. Take your time, mate." Mick said, climbing to his feet and checking the buttons to see what worked. None of them did, and the Aussie let out a large breath through his nose. 

"Power outage." The Frenchman muttered, sitting up and rubbing his neck. Mick glanced at him before collapsing down next to him. 

"I knew I should've taken the stairs." Mick said to himself. "Alarm be damned." 

"Not exactly the day you had in mind?" The Frenchman asked eyeing him curiously. 

"Nah. Just got hired, my flight was good and I had a train car all to myself. Not a bad day, if you ask me." He avoided the subject of his parents. He wasn't ready to talk about them just yet. "I just had a funny feeling about this elevator." He murmured. The European shook his head. 

"I was hired as well, though my day has been less than satisfactory." He confessed, leaning his head back against the wall behind him. 

"What happened?" Mick asked curiously. The European glanced his way before closing his eyes. 

"A series of bad flights and airport management, and being attacked by an idiotic American in the lobby." He sighed out, the exhaustion oozing out from every pore. The marksman nodded in understanding. 

"Yeah, I met him too. Him and his Scottish pal." Mick said, playing with a sniper bullet that he left in his vest pocket by accident. How he wasn't stopped in the airport security, he had no clue. 

"Last I saw of them, they were discussing _The Art of War_ by Sun Tzu, the American sounding like a demented Neanderthal." The masked man said. He glanced over at Mick's hands. 

"Sniper?" He inquired, his eyes glancing up to the man's face. 

"Yeah." Mick turned to the other male. "And you?" 

"Spy." He said. 

"That why I couldn't see you at first?" Mick wondered aloud. 

"Perhaps. I was just testing my cloaking device." The spy said, taking out a cigarette case and removing a cancer stick from the holder. Mundy frowned. 

"Mate, if you want to take a durry, please don't do it here. It's a closed space, and I'd like to breath." The Aussie asked politely. The spy sighed and put it away.

"You're rather eloquent for a bushman." He commented. 

"Bushman?" He murmured. He raised his voice to normal volume. "I have three rules. Be polite. Be efficient. And have a plan to kill everyone you meet. That's what it means to be an assassin." 

"Assassin." The Frenchman scoffed. 

"What, you think that being an assassin-" 

"You are _not_ an assassin, mon ami. You are a bushman. A reclusive individual that hides in the brush and shoots people five miles away, rather than accomplishing anything." The spy cut him off. "A professional has standards indeed. However, your standards are below par. What about never being discovered? What about finding out their secrets and using their weaknesses against them?" 

"That's called stabbing people in the back, and that's not polite. Breaks my code of conduct." The Aussie snapped. The spy had practically smushed his career under those overly fancy shoes of his. Honestly, just because the bloke could talk fancy and probably disrespectfully bed women in the process, doesn't mean his job was any better. 

"And what does your mother think of your code of conduct?" The spy asked, smirking when he heard the tracker growl and turn away.

"None of your damned business." 

"I suppose she didn't take it well." The spy continued. 

"Shut up." Mick growled, remembering his mother's pleas for him to stay home and not get involved. 

"A mother worries for her babies. A _good_ mother raises them better." 

That was it. Mick lunged at the eloquent male in this crimson red cell that was an elevator, pulling him to his feet and shoving the spy up the side of the wall, holding him by his suit jacket. Instead of scaring the gentleman, the spy merely grinned triumphantly. 

"Are you going to hit me, bushman?" He jeered. "Come now, I thought your rule was to be polite." 

"You keep me mum out of this." Mick warned in a low voice. "She's got nothing to do with this. You want to insult me, fine. But keep me family out." He shoved the spy against the wall as a reiteration of how serious he was before letting him go. He made a promise to never hit or get into fistfights. He intended to keep that promise, no matter how much he itched to take a swing at the Frenchman. The spy straightened his suit with a huff. 

"You aren't even using proper grammar. 'Me mum, me family'...did you even pass high school?" He paused before smirking. "On second thought, I know the answer. Only one more year, Michel, and you would've graduated." The sniper glared at the spy. 

"Let me guess, you snooped into my file and read that?" Mick decided to turn the tables with a sneer. "Congrats. I'm not mad. Anyone can know that. I admit it. I ain't ashamed. I just didn't see the point in staying if all I had to know was how to shoot pompous bastards like you." 

"Perhaps if you graduated high school, you would know what that word actually means." The spy countered, undeterred by the new attitude. 

"What?" Mick questioned. 

"You claim to be polite, and kindly asked _me_ to keep parents out of it, yet you insult _my_ parents as a reward. Bastard means a child born under unwed parents." The spy explained with a triumphant smirk. 

The sniper looked down at his shoes and sighed, recalling what he meant, and knew the spook was right. 

"I'm sorry, mate." He murmured. "And don't call me that French name. It's Mick." 

The elevator shuddered and the light turned back on. Both men finally got a good look at each other. 

The spy really was elegant, but had a self-satisfied air that irked the living daylights out of Mick. He hated men like this spook. He was a rogue, but handsomely mysterious. Women fell flat on their faces for this man, no doubt. What was even less doubtful was that this guy probably tossed them aside like trash. Spies often didn't care about anyone but themselves, and so far, as much as Mick could see, the spook fit that perfectly. He was so busy glaring at the masked man that he missed the appreciative stare that the spy was giving him, his eyes wandering over the Aussies form and face in chaste admiration. 

The car moved downwards, steadily reaching ground floor. The spook and sniper turned to the metal door in front of them, not daring to look at each other for totally opposite reasons. One feared he would loose control over his fists. The other feared his eyes would give away the tumbling emotions inside. 

"Don't flatter yourself, bushman. I looked at everyone's file, not just yours." He said coldly, betraying how he really felt towards the man. The sniper grunted, his eyes staring at his reflection. When they reached the bottom floor, the spy stopped Mick from leaving. 

"Just so you know, my parents no longer exist. You cannot insult them." The spy said with a flourishing smile, disappearing on the spot. Mick opened his mouth to yell at the man, but the masked individual was gone. He growled in frustration instead and parked his ass on a bench, opening his file with a grumbling mutter. 

The two men that were in the lobby prior were beating each other, cards abandoned, and now wrestled in the fountain. 

Mick decided to get busy reading. As he read the contents, he found himself in several states of horror from each sentence. He signed his life away for five years. There were no take backs. He was stuck with the spook as a teammate. 

This would be agony.


	2. Moving In

Mick Mundy. That was a name for teasing. Honestly, what were his mum and dad thinking? Making his name a…a…two-words-that-begin-with-the-same-letter deal! How embarrassing. It was bad enough that he lived with teasing such a name since his childhood, but as an _adult?_ Honestly, this spy has no problem of teasing everything, no matter how small! _Including his name!_

Backing up.

He was on a bus now to his new home, the RED Teufort base.

Buses were not horrible. They were like bigger versions of cars, except with very little space to yourself. Or at least, that was what was happening now. Sure, he had an entire two seats to himself, but that did not change the fact that the spook made it a goal to sit _right behind him_. Sniper pointedly ignored him, hating the very cologne that the damned man wore.

Alright, hate was a strong word. Loathe was better. It was strong- _er_ and more extreme. Despise was _perfect_.

Aw hell, who was he kidding, there were no words to describe his abhorrence to the man behind him.

The spy.

Now, Mick was a man who liked keeping to himself, but it was obvious the French baguette didn’t share that sentiment, and didn’t realize from the Australian’s aura he wanted to be left alone. Or perhaps Spy didn’t care. It really could’ve been either.

“Mon ami, are you still angry about the lobby incident? Or was it the elevator?” He asked in fake concern. Yep, didn’t care.

“Shut up ya big head!” Mick growled, pulling his hat further down his face, almost touching his eyebrows.

“Ah, Michel-”

“Don’t call me that stupid French name!” He interrupted. How many times did he have to tell him that? The Frenchman blew smoke into the Aussie’s neck and leaned back in his seat.

“It sounds beautiful, like my language, mon ami. Unlike your face.” The man simpered, sounding like he was flirting, but the dastardly smirk gave away the true intent: impulsive insulting.

_Ignore him. Always ignore the bullies. All they are after is a reaction._ Mick told himself, counting to ten.

_1…2…3…4…5…6…7-_

 “Struck a nerve, did I?” The Frenchman continued.

_1…2…3…4…5-_

“I do not see how. You care not about it. Otherwise you may actually shower.”

_1….2….3-_

“Of course, a shower wouldn’t fix that face. It would help it, however.”

_1-_

“Perhaps I should get rid of your clothes as well. The amount of plaid that you are wearing is atrociously abominable!”

“Oi! I’m only wearing a plaid shirt!” Mick exploded, turning around to yell at the infernal male who was smugly grinning he entire time, a tell tale sign that Mick fell into his trap.

“One shirt in an entire wardrobe is fine, but I am guessing that you hold more than just one?” He said placidly.

“Go to hell, ya bloody pooftah!” Mick snapped, leaning against the window and putting his legs up across the seats, his feet all the way in the aisle and almost reaching the other window seat across the way.

“Mon dieu! That must be why you are such an oaf!” The Frenchman exclaimed, grinning in delight at the long lower appendages. Mick crossed his arms and grumbled to himself, sinking lower into his seat. He ignored the spook, thinking to himself that he must be in hell. The added noise of the supposed soldier and the Scottish Demoman fighting, the boyish Bostonian talking the ear off Miss Pauling, the engineer trying to calm everyone down without bothering the pyro, who latched him…her…it (Or was it they?)-self to the slightly short and chubby Texan.

The only ones who were silent was the bus driver, the heavy in the back of the bus (who seemed to be very interested in the German who chatted away about God knows what), and miss Pauling. So far, those people were the only ones on good light in the Australian’s eyes.

He just wanted to be left _alone_. Why did he ever wish to be social? It was _better_ to be alone. No one to worry about other than yourself and no one to annoy you with constant chit chat. This constant colloquial loquaciousness was getting on his case, and was but three seconds to exploding and killing someone. To his utter delight, the spook was closest to him.

_Promise me, sweetheart. Promise me you’ll never start a fist fight._

That voice in his head…it was his mum. He remembered that promise. It was shortly after he came home from being slammed by several kids twice his size and strength. Mick was cut and bruised, for the reason of being the odd one out. Even his name was considered something to laugh at. He promised his mother that he wouldn’t start fights, and only fight to defend himself or others. The offending party must throw the first punch, however.

The thought of his mother and his vow made him sober from the anger and tension, and he relaxed in his seat, feeling one emotion gnawing at his stomach:

God, he hated that. Regret and guilt went hand in hand. He regretted leaving on such bad terms with his parents and felt guilty he had hurt them. Bad terms or not, they were his family, and he knew to keep that in mind. It was as the saying goes; honor thy mother and father, and ye shall have long life. He was sure he had broken that one multiple times over since he first heard that in the Presbyterian church his mother dragged him to every Sunday. And the thou shalt not kill? Nah, he wasn’t even going there.

“Tell me bushman, why Michael? Your name is beyond simplistic, nothing too interesting. I heard that one who has an ordinary name can have ordinary expectations of a person.” The spy murmured into his ear. Mick shoved the masked man’s face away with a hand and made sure he was an arm’s length away.

The bus stopped at the base in no time (though it was nearly an eternity and a half to the reclusive Australian), and after yet _another_ argument with the spook, all Mick wanted to do was get to the camper van, which he was told was parked in the back. However, before he could even think of going there, there was a sickening crack, a yell of pain, and a half drunken laugh. The Australian dared himself to look, and promptly shook his head.

It seemed the scout had decided to go and injure himself on a stupid whim to prove his balls had dropped. Typical ankle biter.

“It is quite sick for a company to hire children.” A French voice said beside him, the familiar cologne and cigarette smell wafting to the Aussie’s nose. Mick didn’t spare a glance.

“Not sure if he is a kid, but sure acts and _sounds_ like one.” Mick muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Do you suppose we should file a complaint?” The Frenchman asked, a small tone of bitterness at the end. Now this time Mick _did_ look over at the Frenchman. He seemed very irked and grey blue eyes were staring at the Bostonian (currently yelling for a medic or someone to carry him to the infirmary) with obvious contempt.

“Under what charges? Don’t like his voice or age?” Mick asked. “I say leave him be. He’ll grow some here. And if he don’t, then I’ll consider it.”

“Odd for a bushman to think such things.” The spy said, flicking his lighter open and starting to smoke.

“I’m not the one to dive into things. I prefer to let people’s own stupidity be their downfall, rather than my complaining.” The sniper said, walking away to find his beloved camper van.

He found it in less time than normal and had to give it a loving pat on the hood. It was an old thing, a hand me down from his cousin. But that didn’t matter to Mick. He had many adventures in the van, and he loved how it was perfect for just him. Of course, he had a house and everything, but that was just so his parents could come over.

He was happy to be in his camper van otherwise. He opened the back door to the van where his living quarters were and his jaw dropped.

“No, no no no. This will _not_ do!” He said resolutely, getting in. Everything was in bloody cardboard boxes! Those were the first to go!

He took them out into the desert heat one by one and began unpacking, sorting through his things to different areas in his camper.

Everything made it ok, with the exception of one thing.

The coffee machine. Curse his luck of the damned thing! The one thing he prayed wouldn’t break on the way over, and it broke! He lived off coffee. He _needed_ coffee!

“Son of a bitch.” Mick muttered, tossing the infernal machine into the garbage bin that was nearby. He was shocked when a head poked out. A very familiar helmeted head.

“WHATCH WHERE YOUR THROWING THINGS, PRIVATE!” Soldier screeched. “YOU ALMOST HURT LIEUTENANT BITES!”

“Lieutenant who?”

“LIEUTENANT BITES!” Soldier repeated, holding up a baby raccoon. Mick felt himself become stunned into silence and had a few options.

Firstly, he could tell soldier that raccoons were highly protective of their young, and probably would be searching for the little thing later. Secondly, he could tell soldier just how many diseases raccoons can carry other than rabies. Thirdly, he could mention that the coffee pot had every purpose in the world to be in a trashcan, but the soldier did not.

However, seeing as how the solder seemed perfectly content in one with the strange choice of pet, Mick said nothing and walked away. Soldier saluted and dove back into the silver can, slamming the circular lid down on top so it looked like an innocent aluminum garbage bin.

“Great. Just what I need. Now all I see is Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street*.” A Bostonian voice proclaimed. Mick turned around and saw the scout, tossing a ball from hand to hand. He was leaning against the building and seemed to be in thought. Wait, wasn’t he injured? Mick supposed the doc was better than he thought.

“Who?” Mick asked again. Same question, different person.

“Oscar. You know, green monster that lives in a trashcan like that? Jim Henson?” Scout offered. He rolled his eyes at the sniper’s dumb look.

“Figures. It’s a stinking kids show that’s educational.”

“How is a green monster in a trashcan educational?” Mick asked incredulously.

“I don’t know, how did Heavy get here from the Soviet Union?” Scout asked, straightening and getting off the side of the building.

A silence.

“Is that what you came here to ask?” Mick questioned, heading inside base to see if there was a coffee machine. The rec room consisted of a broken TV, a lumpy and spring filled couch, two armchairs, a kitchen area, and a poker table. Everything was either chipped, worn, or both. Mick wasn’t bothered. He searched the cabinets in the kitchen for the coffee machine that _should_ be there. Scout followed him and continued to talk.

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious Russians are, like, banned from leaving their home. Hell they can’t even smile or else they get shot.”

“You ever think that maybe what your saying is offensive?” Mick asked, not looking at the kid.

“To who? The fatass ain’t here.” Said child countered, hopping onto the stool.

“Doesn’t matter. Don’t insult someone unless you know something about them. You don’t know the bloke, and it isn’t right to say thinks like that.”

Mick found the coffee pot and smiled in victory before deciding to test it out.

“That makes you a hypocrite. You judge spy all the time, calling him a faggot and such.”

Mick paused in getting the water. The words stung, and they hit him like a sledgehammer.

Was that true?

The scout scoffed and walked away, calling him no fun and claiming to go play some baseball. Mick vaguely recalled it required a team of players, and where on earth was he going to get said people? Certainly not here.

Mick watched the machine slowly trickle out some coffee and his thoughts wandered to his parents and away from the Spook.

Were they past the sad stage and now to the angry part? Did they despise him? He certainly hoped not. Family was family. You can’t let go of that. Even if his father cursed him till the day he died, he would still keep in contact.

Or on the flip side, they could just ignore him. He could write one, two, nay, _three_ letters a day and they wouldn’t respond to him. He refused to allow himself to be disheartened by that prospect. If they gave up on him, he was going to be the bigger man and still be the devoted son, regardless of his parents’ possible cold expression of abandonment.

A familiar smell of vanilla and chemicals wafted to the Australians nose and he scowled.

“Spook, I’m not in the mood.” He muttered.

“Come now, mon ami, we just arrived here.” Spy said, appearing out of thin air to his left. “Have you not explored this place at all? What on earth have you been doing?”

“I’ve been moving in.” Mick responded, pointedly looking away from him and half holding his breath. “What have you been doing, taking a cigarette bath while chain smoking?”

The spy waved a hand.

“Alas, though Team Fortress Industries has millions running through, they cannot afford such luxury as a bathtub or private restrooms.”

“Haha, very funny.” Mick said humorlessly.

“You believe me to be joking. I am not.” The Frenchman said, his serious face coming back. Mick turned to the spy and saw that he _was_ being serious.

“Oh…great. Just fantastic.” Mick sighed, leaning against the counter as coffee slowly trickled into the pot.

“Honestly, privacy was not among the aspects the architects and builders considered when they made this fort.” Spy said, lighting another cigarette. Mick grit his teeth.

“Ok, that’s it.” He said, snatching the cancer stick from him before he could take a proper breath. The Aussie threw it into the sink and turned on the water.

“I don’t care what you do with your lungs, but I care about mine! So quit smoking your durries _right next to me!_ ” He snapped. The spy stared at him dubiously before shaking his head.

“You are by far one of the most touchiest people I know. I light a smoke and you throw it in the sink.” He said, turning the running water off. “I bet in your mind, when I tease you, you believe I am bullying you.”

“And you’re not?” He shot back.

“Non. I am not.”

“Fooled me. Congratulations.”

“On any normal occasion, I’d say that wouldn’t be hard, but considering the circumstances, I’ll refrain.”

“Piss off! Why should I believe anything you say?” Mick tuned around and glared at him. “All you’ve done is poke, mock, and heckle me!” The sniper exploded. He gave out a large sigh and let his anger subside.

“You know what, forget it. I don’t have to talk to you.” He said, waving a hand in a dismissing manner before shoving the appendages into his pockets and walking back outdoors, leaving the now ready coffee behind. He went back to his camper and slammed the door shut behind him, deciding to reorganize.

What actually happened, however, was a feeble attempt at it before placing everything back where he originally put it and instead was taken to reading an old copy of Saxon Hale’s comic issue # 2, where Saxon Hale wrestles four saltwater crocs at once in a wildlife reserve center while dodging the plague that was hippy protesters and their sissy music.

He had read it many times, and practically memorized every line, every picture, and every action the thin comic book had to offer. He did so because it was the one that spoke most to him. It wasn’t the manliness or the girls who swooned for the hero, neither was it hippies. It was the crocs. Mick had fallen into a billabong about seven miles away from his high school they year he dropped out and was nearly killed by four crocs that had swam upriver to the pond to breed. It was a nasty ordeal, and ended up with him having sixty four stitches across various bites on his body, and a very damaged pride that he couldn’t get himself out of the mess by his little lonesome. As retribution, he came back to that pond a couple days later, with his kukri, a harpoon, his father’s rifle, and jacked up high on painkillers and anger. His parents never asked where he got the skins, teeth, bones, and meat from.

He still had the items he made as prizes at his house.

There was a knock on the door of his camper and Mick closed his comic book, wondering just who it was. When he opened it, there was no one there. He stepped out to investigate, when he slipped on something and there was a crack. He managed to stop himself from falling by grabbing onto the door handle, resulting in a very awkward balancing act. When he straightened, he looked down and groaned.

Someone had placed a full mug of coffee at the foot of his camper van’s door.

“Well shit!” He cursed, stepping over the mess and picking up the pieces of the mug.

“What the hell was that?” He wondered, heading back to the garbage can when he stopped. He recalled the last time he went towards a garbage can and shook his head. He decided not to risk going through that again and entered the base once more, carrying the pieces of the broken cup. The only person in the rec room was a scout, slouching and sleeping over the side of the lumpy furniture.

“Favorite mug, too…” Mick grumbled to himself as he threw the glass shards in the trash.

“How normal.” The French dialect gave the true identity away as the scout on the couch vanished and was replaced with a very tangled spy. “I try to do a nice thing to show that I am not the villainous ‘Wanker’ you claim me to be, and what do you do? Be a complete oaf and ruin it.”

“Piss off, you are such a-wait what?” He paused. And took a step towards the Frenchman. “You did that? Put a coffee mug on my doorstep?”

“Oui.” The spy said, rolling over and sitting elegantly after breaking from character. Mick turned away to get another mug.

“Is that so hard for you to believe? That I can be nice every once in a while?” The suited male continued.

“Bloody well yes!” The sniped exploded, forgetting the mug and marching right back up to the spook, looming over his form. The spy, instead of feeling threatened, lit a cigarette.

“And that is because…?” The Frenchman inquired.

“Because you are a buggering, pompous, megalomaniac!” Mick exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air exasperatingly. The spy seemed to inspect the Aussie for a minute before standing.

“Your judgement of me is neither sound, nor adequate.” He said stiffly, strolling away. Mick noticed how his feet seemed to lack the flighty and elegant air as he retreated to wherever spies go when they retreated to their dark nosy hole like a snake.

Mick watched him leave, but instead of pondering over the subtle changes in the spook, he simply got himself that cup of coffee and retreated to the sanctuary of his camper van. No doubt it wouldn’t hurt to get some shut eye from the jet lag, and wake up for dinner.

As it turned out, despite him being so tired, the lethargy did nothing to help him sleep. One could argue that the coffee was keeping him awake, but that was decaf. It was more of the fact that his mind was full of thoughts. Thoughts of his parents. Thoughts of his family. Thoughts of his new teammates.

But most of all, thoughts of the Spy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Sesame Street was at its infimacy in the 1970's, so it probably want as well know back then.


	3. Blind

Dinner turned out to be another hell storm, as per the soldier cooked, if it could even be called cooking. It was bad enough anyone let the bloke near the stove. It was another ordeal altogether that no one stopped to wonder if a not so sound male could understand that people had to _eat_ what he made. As it turned out, everyone was in agreement that the food was inedible. Thus, the engineer began to prepare food.

As he did so, the Frenchman meandered to him after scaring the cooking Texan by lighting a cigarette still cloaked. Mick wanted to punch him in the teeth so badly.

“What is it with you and durries? Do you _have_ to smoke to live?” Mick growled under his breath when the spy sat next to him.

“Non, not to live. But to cope.” The Frenchman said, waving his hand a little too expressively. “Cope with the immaturity of the men around me. Correction, the men and child around me.”

“Hey! I’m 18! I’m legal!” Scout yelled at Spy. There was a twitch on the spook’s eyebrow when the child spoke, though he made no response to the Bostonian. He was however, ejected from the room by a very drunk, black Scot.

“Cope…oh, you’ll be coping _fine_ when you are on the hospital bed with _cancer.”_ Mick said, resting his head on his hand on the counter, tapping his fingers rhythmically in an irritated fashion. The spy grinned and shuffled a little closer.

“ _Oh? So you do care…”_ the spy simpered in his language, smirking slightly.

_“_ I don’t know what you’re saying spook...” Mick growled, his voice getting more dangerous.

“ _I adore it when your eyes are mad…and your voice when it’s feral…”_

“Stop it. Right now.” He snarled in between grit teeth.

_“You’re such an oaf…but I love it anyway…”_

_“_ I’m warning you, Spook…”

_“At first I thought I’d hide my attraction…but your proving it to be harder than I thought…”_

“That’s. _It._ ” Mick snapped, standing up suddenly. He reached behind him and pulled out a long curved blade with a loud “shink!” and slammed it into the wood so it was stuck in the surface by four inches, the blade edge slicing the end of the Spy’s cigarette off. Said French male froze and his smirk died, the cancer stick hanging uselessly off his lips.

“Meet Sharpie…” Mick rumbled, his grip on his elegant kukri tightening, before pulling the blade out of the table and sheathing it back on his hip. He moved to the other side of the room and lay across the lumpy and spring-filled couch, feeling all eyes on him and the silence eating at his core.

“Where did _that_ come from? Its like it was pulled out of his ass…” he heard the Scout mutter. It seemed the youngling had snuck back in. Mick’s face burned with embarrassment, but he placed the hat over his face to cover it. He never did like the attention to be on him.

Things calmed down after that, and soon everyone minus Spy, Demoman, and Mick were socializing happily. This whole chit chat business was enough to make Mick cringe, and he wanted nothing to do with the protocols of interaction. Frankly, he was happy being by himself. This background noise was too much for him. But once the food was announced to be finally ready, he had every intention of taking his plate to his camper, but given that a seat was pulled for everyone, he resigned to his fate of being forced into communal meals.

He couldn’t deny that he liked the food Engineer made, but the overall amount that the Texan piled on his plate was…well, it was enough for an army. He tried to give some of it back, but the male heard none of it.

“Slim, you’re skinnier than a crowbar.” He said, pushing the plate back to Sniper. “Its like you haven’t eaten in years.”

“I eat! I just…don’t do it often.” He muttered to himself, sitting down at the table. The smell of vanilla and smoke wafted to his nose and he closed his eyes in frustration, his aviators shielding them from the others’ view. To his surprise, the smell died away and the spy sat down next to him, though his cigarette was missing.

Small victories…

\---

The familiarity of a scope on a victim was thrilling and nostalgic all the same to Mick as he fired and killed an enemy. He didn't care who it was. This supposed respawn was there to catch the bloke. Normally when he was behind the scope and taking aim, he vaguely wondered if they had a family or kids. A wife. Brothers, sisters, anyone really who would be hurt by the killing of a man or woman through a bullet to the head. He would then brush it off and take the shot before leaving to get paid.

This pause and pensive action made it obvious to Mick that he still had his humanity in him, and thus he wasn't mentally sick as his father called him. The moment he never even considers the repercussions of his actions was the moment he knew he had become what his father labeled his as. He refused to be that.

Here in this desert was that moment he never stopped to think of who he was killing.

"I'm not a heartless and crazed gun man!" He told himself. "I'm an assassin. I'm a professional! I'd consider their death if there was no respawn!" The Aussie muttered to himself. The idea of death was terrifying, and to think there was mechanism that supposedly caught you before you crossed over? That was even worse. It was a foolish thing, just a plain idiocy, to not consider the possibility of never coming out alive. What if it fails? He can't trust a thing that catches his life. There's too much risk involved.

This was only one reason why he avoided it like the plague. He was certain it had something to do with that messy gold crack called Australium. Anything fishy of that sort always had something to do with it. And by God, anyone who messed with it came out the back door and greeted the devil at his fire and brimstone realm before being thrown into the abyss of nothing. _Nothing_ was worse than hell, in his opinion*.

He wasn't going to cheat death if he could help it. But if those others wanted to use it to their advantage, so be it. He doubted they even knew what they were messing with.

Mick heard the bell to end the match and he shouldered his rifle, feeling his muscles pop and groan in protest as he got up. He left the jarate in the nest and strolled out of the entrance. What he forgot, however, was the second step that was eaten away by age and termites, and as soon as he put his weight on it, he went down.

All 75 feet.

He woke up with a groan and a nasty headache. His entire body hurt, and he moved to get up when a strange feeling came over him. Something wasn't right.

Why couldn't he open his eyes? And why was he smelling cigarettes with a hint of vanilla?

Only one man smoked that fancy stuff.

"What an oaf you can be, bushman."

Oh _no_.

"Really, it's those gangly limbs of yours." Spook continued. He heard loud footsteps around him and a shuffle. Mick felt the presence come closer and he vaguely thought him to be crouching over him condescendingly. He could certainly feel the smirk.

He blinked and-

Wait. He blinked. His eyes weren't closed. They were open. So why was it so dark and loud? The smell was almost unbearable and his head was screaming in agony with the sensory overload.

"Spy..." He murmured.

"Oui, filthy bushman?" The Frenchman simpered. Mick opened his mouth to say something, but the words died on his lips and he just lay there, trying to make sense of what happened.

"Come on, I don't have all day." The man said, annoyance lacing through his voice. Mick gulped and his thoughts turned as dark as his vision had become.

If he truly was blind, his career was over. He had no education to make a new life for himself. He couldn't go home and face his parents. He couldn't go _anywhere_ if he couldn't see! Only person nearby was the ruddy spook, and like _hell_ he would help! He would mock his pain and make a show of it.

And blindness wasn't cured by the medigun.

What was he going to do!?

"Bushman."

This was his life!

"Sniper?"

This was all he had left!

"Michel?"

Stupid! He should've watched where he was going! Now what was he going to do!?

"Michael, stop crying."

Stop- what? He moved a hand to his face and sure enough, there were lines of wetness down his rugged skin. Shame burned into the sniper and he wiped it off, a frown deepening the lines on his face as he glared at where he thought spy was (which made it obvious to the other male what was wrong.)

"Shut up, spook!" He shot, his voice cracking with emotion. Mick coughed to fix his tone. The spy cleared his throat. And thin fingers of a deft hand moved his face to the opposite direction gently.

"I'm over here, mon cher..." Spy murmured. There was silence as Mick tried to stay neutral and the spy seemingly was still.

"Michael, can you see anything?" He asked calmly, without any hint at all of mocking or jeering. There was nothing but concern in his voice, which made Mick ponder in silence for a few seconds before answering.

"...no." Mick muttered.

"I was afraid of that." Spy sighed, taking the Australian's arm and guiding him to his feet.

"What?" Mick asked in disbelief.

"'What' quoi?" Spy countered, sounding just as confused by the question.

"No laughing? No mocking? No teasing?" Mick listed, his eyes narrowing, though he still wasn't looking at the spy. Spook turned his face again.

"Is it really so hard for you to believe I am capable of a little compassion?"

"Yes." Mick answered immediately.

Mick later in life would be thankful that he was blind, as per he didn't see the hurt expression that came over the French spy at the Australian's answer.

"Well I can and I do. Believe it or not, I am not a monster." The European said, leading the sniper to a crate so he could sit down.

"We have two options at this point." Spy said, his business voice returning. Mick's line of once vision moved to the ground.

"Either you proclaim blindness to administration and get compensation-"

"No." Mick interrupted. "I'm not going to give up my career." _It's all I have left_ , he added in his head.

There was a sigh and a rustle of cloth and the clicking of metal.

"Then there is other alternative. Hold still."

"Wha-" Mick's speech was cut short by a cough of blood after a blade was imbedded into his exposed back, the cold relentless metal sliding through flesh and bone effortlessly and all pain and senses died.

A bright light flashed and hurt Mick's eyes. Everything was cold. The vision cleared and he was leaning on someone. Or something. He was wet. Soaked. But water was a small part as he was waist deep in the liquid as the red blood pooled around him. Someone was speaking, but the pain in his chest was tearing his attention away. He had several shots in his chest, killed by his own type of bullets. He was abandoned. Even the truth laughed in his face and abandoned him. Floods of loneliness washed over him and he wanted it all to be over. All hope was gone. He wanted to give up. The light returned and he suddenly was falling, the dizzy sensation of plummeting back and being thrown into concrete*.

He opened his eyes, his mouth gasping for breath, and his vision was filled with the room he prayed he never would enter.

Respawn.

All at once anger, coarse fury bled through his veins and his stomach leapt into his throat, his breakfast pouring all over the floor. As he knelt on all fours, regurgitating his coffee and biscuit, the bitterness and horror of using such a tool as respawn heightened. The perversion of cheating death was a mystery meant to be left alone, and the spy threw him head first into the fray.

"How do you feel, mon cher?"

Mick looked up from his mess, a little bit of vomit drooling down the side of his mouth with his face as pale as a ghost. But that was what he was. A living ghost. He had died but not crossed over. Perhaps it would be better. All who cheat death in such an unnatural way are doomed to nothing. Nothing was worse than the devil himself. It was a vast emptiness that caused insanity and...and...

"Fuck you." Mick growled out. The spy seemed genuinely surprised. His eyes widened and he even stepped back as if the words gave him a physical blow.

"Pardon?" He asked.

"I said, _'Fuck. You_.'" Mick repeated with more venom, slowly getting up, his head swimming.

"I do not see where this is coming from..." Spy said carefully

For a man who was half sick and the other half buzzed by hatred, Mick moved fast. He grabbed the side of the spy's suit and slammed him against the plaster wall, his eyes ablaze through his aviators in absolute malice. His teeth, including the fang like canines he was self conscious of, were exposed and bared like a wild animal. Spy looked frightened for a moment before collecting himself.

"Michel, I do not pretend to know what-"

"You sent _me_ through _respawn_." The Australian forced through closed teeth. The spook's eyes widened.

"Well, oui. Your eyes are fixed, are they not?" He said slowly. Mick slammed him against the wall, forcing a groan from the Frenchman as his head collided with the plaster.

"To hell with my vision! _YOU SENT ME THOUGH RESPAWN YOU FUCKWIT*_!"

"I had to!" Spy countered, his eyes narrowing harshly. "What else was I supposed to do!? You and I both know the doctor cannot fix blindness, and you said you didn't want to claim blindness!"

" _DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE YOU BLOODY FROG!?_ " Mick screamed at him, his forehead pressing against the masked man's.

"No, I do not! Kindly elaborate!" Spy yelled back, pushing his hands against Mick's arms as they held the Frenchman off the ground against the wall.

"You cheat death and your soul goes to a place worse than _hell_!"

Spy's eyes widened and went down to Mick’s chest, seeing something under the man's shirt suspended by a leather strap. While Mick seethed, the spook pulled at the length of leather and exposed a wooden cross. He nodded in understanding and dropped the wooden charm.

"I see," was all he said as his face went to neutral. What was there to say? The man was religious and Spy was not. “Sorry” obviously wasn't going to cut it for the man. A mere sorry wasn't going to save one’s immortal soul from the damned. Mick no doubt would never forgive him.

"If it's any consolation, we all are headed there." Spy said, staring down at his suspended shoes. Mick growled like a rabid dog and dropped the spy to the ground, where he landed on his behind with a small "oof!" 

"As if you'd understand. _Get stuffed*…_ " The sniper muttered, walking out of the room in disgust.

_Bastard! Frog! Freak! Deviant! Wanker!_

He marched down the halls, muttering these insults under his breath as he went. The camper van was his sanctuary, and he slammed the door to it with a violent force, making the actual van shake a little as he threw off his uniform vest and shoes. The ladder gave a creak as he climbed it and curled up under the covers, his anger starting to subside as more rational thoughts circled his brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * If you recall when reading the TF2 comic Loose Cannon, Blutarch states that there is nothing on the other side. I prefer to think this as because he cheated death using the Australium. And since Mundy is the resident so called Aussie, he would know this. The brothers are not from Australia, and thus, ignorant of the consequences.  
> * I wont go into detail, but my beta reader suggested that what I described may not be understandable. But just to be cautious, read comic #4 Blood in the Water in case of confusion.  
> * This word, as I have been told by several people, is an insult in Australia (supposedly). It means “idiot”.  
> *Australian slang term (supposedly): “Fuck off.”


	4. Interest

Mick felt guilty. And he _hated_ that.

All the more reason to never be around people. It was _better_ to be alone; to only worry about yourself and your feelings rather than others and theirs. He liked the silence, the solitude. It was comforting, and he preferred it to the constant chatter. But one thing was certain: he _hated_ the spook being mad at him.

Now, Mick originally thought the abominable Frenchman would drop a used cigarette in his coffee or make him an ashtray to put out his durries when he passed him in the halls. Maybe even backstab him _again_ out of spite (it took him nearly three hours to figure out what the other had done to send him through respawn). Respawn was thrown out the window when he found out that respawn was turned off or at least powered down three hours after the ceasefire or end of battle. Alright, one revenge type off the table. Nevertheless, he still expected him to be ruthless or something in anger.

Not this… _silent treatment._

He wouldn’t deny it. He at first loved how Spy seemed to disappear from his radar. That was a miracle within itself. However, things began to change as the days passed. After the trials were over and they were given a break of sorts before work as a reward, he was forced to see the severity of Spy’s decorum. 

In the rare times he saw him (yes, the man had stopped visiting his camper area altogether) the man just looked past him and never acknowledged that Mick existed. He thought nothing of it and said that he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. That changed quickly.

On the last day of trials, he had to go from one end of the map to the other to find a new nest. That proved to be harder than he thought. The first time he passed by spy, he ran into him. Out of reflex, he apologized. Spy didn’t even look up. The second time, he nearly shot him but the disguise was let up as he backstabbed one of the makeshift enemies. Didn’t even flinch. And finally, to test the waters, he threw jarate at the man.

Even when the suit-clad man was covered in piss, he still nonchalantly gave no indication of being disgusted. No signs of _any_ emotion, for that matter. He just walked away and casually cloaked off. This was the sign that something was wrong. And it was bad.

After he blew up at the man not a couple days prior, when he retreated to his bed, he fumed about what happened, but realized that he had done wrong. He assumed that the other knew the consequences of messing with something like respawn and Australium, and even how he felt about it. But he disclosed neither of those things to the spy, and it probably was why the man was so shocked by how he reacted.

Mick was a loner. He didn’t have to explain anything to anyone when he was by himself, because there _was_ no one else. He liked it. He preferred it. But now that he was here at this base with these men, it made it obvious that it was good and proper right he _had_ to be more social. He hated the notion, but that was life.

He sighed heavily and leaned against the side of his home after battle on the last days of trials and contemplated everything. His blindness, how the man helped him, his own reaction to death, and the spook’s reaction to _his_ reaction. Mick knew it was wrong for him to lose his composure for several reasons.

The man really was trying to help. If he was trying to trick him, Spy would’ve relished in his anger or any reaction at all. Mock him for it. Secondly, he knew these men didn’t know how respawn worked. And he wasn’t even sure. Was Australium even a part of it? That was a real question, and he knew it couldn’t be answered unless he asked. But he only assumed, and and it was under this assumption when he raged at Spook. Thirdly, he forgot to be polite. Spy saved his career and was met with a raging Aussie instead of a grateful and polite thank you.

Now _that_ was not within professional standards.

Mick straightened his hat and sighed before moving towards base and entering the rec room. This silent treatment was eating at him more than any harsh words or cruel actions could do. Blessing or not, it had to stop. But problem remained; Spy was a spy. He wouldn’t be easy to find. It was in his nature. He was a slippery basta-

He was sitting right there.

_The spook was sitting right there_ , smoking a cigarette, an Edith Piaf record on the turntable and reading a book. Why was he in the rec room? He normally retreated to his private smoking room, which he claimed as sanctuary. That originally was where Mick planned to search first, but since he was here…

Now he was starting to feel the awkward. The man didn’t move or seem to breathe out of place when the door of the rec room opened with a loud creak and slam when Sniper came in. He just turned the page of his novel and continued on. Mick sighed and sat down on the couch, about two feet away from the other man. He felt stuck, unsure how to continue on. Does he apologize first and explain after? Does he make small talk? Does he ask what he planned to make for dinner? How to fool a DNA test? _Damn if I don’t go insane for not being social enough to know how to do this._

“G’day…” he said, taking his hat off and moving it around between his hands. Spy did nothing.

“I know yer mad. And I get it…”

“Um…I guess what I’m saying is…I’m sorry…”

That made his eye twitch. Sniper took this as a good sign.

“You were just tryin’ to help…” he concluded. There was a paused for about a minute before the spy got up and calmly closed his book, turning off Edith Piaf’s woeful throes about her lover leaving her. For the first time in three days, the Spy looked right at the sniper.

“You’re apologizing…to _moi?”_ he asked, his tone in shock and almost in disbelief. Sniper turned confused.

“Wot?...er, what?” he asked.

“I doomed your damnable soul to hell. Seems off that you would be apologizing to _me_.” Spy said simply, placing his book back on the makeshift shelf.

“Well…uh, I mean…it’s complicated.” Mick offered. The spy was silent, but his expression was not dismissing. Rather, it was an invitation to continue.

“I thought…aw, piss…I thought respawn works with Australium…” he attempted. Spy’s look didn’t change.

“Every bloke from Down Under knows that stuff makes you mad, and using it to cheat death…you don’t get judged. It’s like God doesn’t know what to do with you, so he just…forgets about you? Anyway, the result of cheating death is…nothing. Instead of heaven or hell, it’s nothing. Forever.”

Spy looked down at his shoes before softening his gaze.

“I am not religious. I never considered that you may be…” He began.

“Presbyterian church. Me mum always insisted I go with her every Sunday.”

Spy hummed in acknowledgement before continuing.

“Regardless, I believe I have done you wrong for assuming that you were like most of these men here, and do not believe in god. We are killers, and thus disregard heaven or hell. It’s too depressing to think about, since we are all headed to the latter if there was such a thing as that. And I believe it is I who should’ve given you an apology.”

“And you just ignored me?” Mick asked, slightly confused.

“Well, I believe you wanted space. Did you not? A man cannot be prevailed upon when he is upset, especially after such an outburst.” He said in explanation. Spy moved closer to the Australian, and held out his hand. “Let us agree that we both are at fault and move on from this?”

“Yeah.” He agreed, taking the gloved hand and shaking it. he noticed that when the Frenchman tugged the appendage upward the first time, he while twisted his wrist around slightly so that the palm was face down and seemed to move his head downwards, like he wanted to do something but he stopped, and the spy played it off. He gave a handshake, but the mistake was not overlooked by Sniper.

 

* * *

 

Sniper had to admit, the Heavy was more than just a large man who kept quiet and loved guns. The way he talked about a mere sunset (albeit, he struggled for words in English) it sounded like poetry. He obviously had more going on in that head of his than what he gave the appearance of.

As Mick climbed into his van and placed the now dead rabbits on the table, he stretched and took off his vest, feeling the sweat make his shirt cling to his body like a second skin. Hunting was hard that day, and he wasn’t used to the game here. It was normal for him to go after dingoes and crocs. Maybe hares. Truthfully, he preferred the outback setting rather than this American desert. However, he was successful, and that’s all he cared about. It’s not like he missed with his gun. Right through the eyes, without fail.

Uncomfortable with the heat that accumulated over the long day in the camper, he decided to open a door and take his shirt off to cool off. Tossing, his shirt onto the bench, he could’ve sworn he heard a sharp intake of breath. He brushed it off and began warming the kettle for afternoon tea. He wasn’t partial to it, but he had to admit, it reminded him of his mother.

His mother…

No, not going to think about the last time he saw them. He was going to keep moving forward and make amends instead of wallow in the self pity and guilt. As a matter of fact, he’ll do that now. He reached under the bed area and snatched a box. Inside, there was printer paper (all he was able to snag before he left home), business envelopes, and a roll of basic stamps with cacti flowers, koalas, and Ayers rock.

Tossing the parcel on the table, now came the bigger problem. Where the hell was a pencil or pen? He supposed he could go in and grab one, but he was more inclined to just search the van. Better to have one for the future, right? Mick rustled through the kitchen drawers, sifting through the miscellaneous items just randomly strewn there by time, rushing, and many I’ll-find-a-place-for-it-later’s. It was not long before he grew frustrated and growled a “Where the bloody fuck is a pen?”

Almost instantly, he heard a clatter of a metal object hitting his camper floor and he whirled around, searching for the source of the noise. It didn’t take long for him to find it and an eyebrow was raised in slight wonder.

In the middle of the camper floor, was a metal ballpoint pen.

Mick bent over and picked it up, turning it over in his fingers a couple times before shrugging and seating himself at his table, starting his letter.

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_How has the weather been? I’m glad I remembered that it’s summer here in the northern hemisphere. It’s bloody odd here. Can you believe this? It’s 40 in_ August _. As I said. Odd. What’s even more odd, the water when it goes down the drain, it goes_ clockwise. _Everything made it in one piece with the exception of my coffee maker. It’s a shame, but I can get a replacement in the town nearby whenever I get my pass. None of us can leave base for a while. I guess it’s a hazing process and a way for the company to keep us in line._

_Speaking of “us,” I met my teammates. I have to say, a lot of them are right off strange. I really wonder for a couple of them and whether or not their sanity is intact. Not going to lie, I was a little weirded by them, but none of them are from Australia, so it could just be a cultural difference. Yes, Mum, I’ve been polite to the best of my ability. After all, I have to keep professionalism._

_While I can’t say I’ve made friends (that’s never been my specialty anyway), I know for_ certain _I’ve met ~~an enemy~~  an antagonist. You know those corporate types we saw sometimes that passes through Zachery’s pub when they stop to rest on their way to Sydney? Yeah, he’s bloody worse. Furthermore, he seems to attack _me _in particular. Why? I’ve got no clue._

Here he paused and tapped the pen against the tabletop in thought.

_Still, he can be counted on for one thing. I made a mistake and it could’ve cost me my job, but instead of mocking me for it, he just took care of it and made sure no one found out about it. at first I was skeptical as to why he would help me, but after contemplation, I think he’s alright. Still not bosom friends, obviously, but I think it’ll turn out well with time._

He sat back in his seat and sighed, looking over everything for a moment before twirling the pen in between his fingers like he did the bullets when he reloaded his gun. As he did so, something odd caught his eye and he stopped what he was doing. He looked down at the writing utensil and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

This pen wasn’t familiar. He had never seen it before. The sleek, black metal added with the silver accents were far more elegant than any plastic pen he would’ve owned. He froze when he realized at the clip, there was an engraving in silver. He looked closer to it.

_Shangri-La Hotel_

What the hell? Wasn’t that all the way in Europe? How would-?

Never mind. He knew. He put the writing utensil down and stood up calmly, taking a casual stretch before getting an idea.

Mick meandered back to the bed area of the camper and reached into a compartment with his non dominant hand. With his other, more sure hand, he grabbed blindly in his bed, where he caught fabric in seemingly thin air, and threw him up and over his shoulder. He successfully flipped an invisible man over his back and into the floor, where the cloak disappeared and the spy was revealed, albeit, groaning in pain. 

“I knew it, ya snake!” Mick said triumphantly. “What were you doing in my camper?”

“Nothing terrible, I assure you…your van is safe…” the Frenchman muttered, climbing to his feet while rubbing the small of his back.

“It’s a _camper_.” Mick corrected. “I want a better answer. _What were you doing in my home?_ ”

The other man glanced at him before straightening himself casually.

“I was wondering if there was anything else I should know about _mon_ _cher_ for future reference, as per to avoid any more… _unfortunate_ misunderstandings.” He said, waving a hand dismissingly.

“Don’t mean you can just barge into me home uninvited!” Mick snapped.

“On the contrary, you _did_ invite me.” Spy responded, almost chipper.

“How, ya wanker?”

“You left the door open. Where I am from, an open door means an invitation...” Spy said, turning around to take a step towards Mick. Mick didn’t know why, but he wasn’t sure he liked that undertone, nor that look Spy was giving him. It was strange and foreign. Was it a French thing? Either way, it was making him nervous, and something was stirring where it shouldn’t be.

“Where I come from, it means it’s bloody hot, and I’m airing out me house.” Mick said, covering his discomfort with a frown and a pointed glare. “My camper, my rules. And you weren’t invited, so get out.”

“Come now, _mon_ _cher_ …surely you wouldn’t mind some form of…’ _cultural enlightenment.’”_ Spy said smoothly. Now Mick was really uptight. He _knew_ that had an undertone, and that made his body react in a way that was for too confusing for his own good. Why was he suddenly feeling very hot under the collar? And why did he feel like all the times when he was alone in the outback after a long day when he was focused more on his body functions? This made no sense…

“I’ll say it one last time before I throw you out. Get out of me house. _Now._ ” He growled. Instead of being threatened, Spy seemed to only smile wider, his eyes becoming more fogged by that strange look.

“ _Oh, how you don’t know what that does to me…”_ Spy sighed in French, slightly closing his steel eyes. This was enough for Mick to lunge. To his surprise, Spy embraced him and his hands went lower than he liked. Then the unthinkable. Spy took a handful of Mick’s ass. It clicked.

Spy really _is_ a _pooftah. And he was coming down on_ Mick _of all people._

_“SPOOK! GET YOUR POOFTAH ASS OUT OF MY VAN!”_ He yelled.

Before Spy got any further on…whatever he was planning, Mick grabbed his arms and pinned them to the French spy’s front, thrusting him towards the door before opening it and throwing him into the dirt.

“And stay out!” Mick snapped for good measure, slamming the door of his camper. He returned to his letter and grabbed the pen angrily.

_~~Still, he can be counted on for one thing. I made a mistake and it could’ve cost me my job, but instead of mocking me for it, he just took care of it and made sure no one found out about it. at first I was skeptical as to why he would help me, but after contemplation, I think he’s alright. Still not bosom friends, obviously, but I think it’ll turn out well with time.~~ _

_Never mind. He still is an ass._

_All My Love,_

_Michael_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hon Hon Hon -snort- 
> 
> Its getting real now. lots and lots of ANGST


	5. Identity Crisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, chapters will soon come pretty quick. I'm on a deadline for this one so, be prepared for Giving More to be put on hold until the end of the month.

_He groped me. He grabbed my ASS. The buggering…bleeding…fucking….GAH!!!_

Mick held no control over his brain as he paced back and forth in his camper, trying to make sense of all that had happened. He felt like his head was swirling, filled with bees buzzing and fogging his consciousness. No words were coming to him at all that could describe what he was feeling.

_Probably because you don’t know what you’re feeling…_

Mick groaned and collapsed into the booth awkwardly, running a hand over his face tiredly. Why did his body react? And why wasn’t he so… _disgusted_ by what had happened? If he were at home, and a ruddy gay so much as looked at him, he would’ve knocked his teeth out. But yet again…that might be because of his father.

His dad was very…conservative. If his father thought he wasn’t defending his honor himself, no doubt he would never let Mick hear the end of it

It was no mystery how he felt about homosexuals. Mick remembered this one time he was threatened by him. He had never been so scared in his life, but by that moment. Even dying here in the New Mexican desert wasn’t that scary in comparison.

His father was overjoyed that his son was going to join the futbol team in school, and saw this as an opportunity to get him more social and more active and more _normal_. His mother just saw it as a way to make friends. Mick only did it to please his father. He was at the age where pleasing the disapproving side of the parental partnership was the sole purpose and reason behind everything he did. His mother didn’t turn a blind eye to it. She was all too aware what he was doing.

On the day of tryouts, Mick shyly climbed out of his father’s worn and beat up truck and glanced back at the driver.

“Nervous?” his father asked while rubbing the steering wheel with his calloused thumb, his mustache twitching.

“Sort of…” The eleven-year-old Mick responded. “More like I’m not sure I’ll fit in…”

“Don’t worry about that.” The older man assured, waving his hand. “Just think about what this means for you! All the sheilas crawl over the athletes. Especially futbol players. By the end of the year, even if you are terrible, _you’ll_ be the one chased by girls.”

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I really want that,” Mick said.

“What did you say, boy?”    

Mick froze. He knew that tone. That voice scared the living daylights out of him; the voice that suggested punishment and certain death by thrashing. It was the voice that made all children cry and rethink their entire short lifespans before fessing up crimes that they had done in the years prior, terrified that if they don’t admit it, they won't make it to heaven. It made Mick’s hair stand on end, and his stomach drop. He turned and faced his father. His eyebrows were knitted, frown deepened by his mustache, and his eyes cold. The happy expression and demeanor were long gone.

“Uh…well, you know I’m not really…into people. I’m not sure I really want all that attention. Seems too…stuffy? I don’t know.” Mick said, rubbing the back of his head nervously. The expression had stayed for a second longer before his father smiled again.

“Good. Because if you were turning faggot on me, I’d have no choice but to drag your cold dead carcass behind my truck after I shoot you dead.” He said humorously as if he’d like to do that. Mick was screaming and pissing himself on the inside.

“Good one dad.” Mick forced out, chuckling. “I’ll see you after, huh?”

“I’ll pick you up.” The older said, starting up his truck. “But I was serious. Even if I don’t know about it…God would, and he would do tenfold what I’d do.”

Mick shivered from the memory and crossed his arms.

Now, he didn’t believe that God actually did that. Jesus was a part of God, and didn’t they say in Sunday school that God loves everyone? So logically, he wouldn’t do something so horrible to gays, right? Kinda would be a double standard if someone said “God loves everyone, but not you, them, and that guy.” Yeah, pretty hypocritical and counterintuitive. Besides, they weren’t hurting anyone, so what was the deal?

_It’s weird, that’s what that is._

Yes, Mick was a little freaked that same sex people found each other attractive. No, he didn’t understand it. But that wasn’t really what his issue was. His issue was _why on earth did my body act like it was twelve with raging hormones?_

What on earth happened? All his life, he was basically alone and never really looked at anyone else in that way. He said he liked girls because that was normal, but not because he thought them attractive in that way. In the times when he felt the need for release, he never really thought of anything particular. Only the feeling itself of his hand. Nothing else.

Perhaps it was the physical contact and the fact he had never had that before in his life? Yeah, that’s what that was, it had just- no. He couldn’t use that excuse. That prosti- _dancer_. She was an _entertainer_ , yes, that’s what she was. When she grabbed him off the street in Sidney, he wasn’t effected, even though she sat him on the curb and palmed at his area. Eventually, after him burning from embarrassment, insisting that he needed to leave, and her failed attempts to arouse him, she gave up and let him go. He felt so awkward with such a forward woman, and to be frank, it scared him more than anything else.

He knew this disturbing thought was going to kill him or at least make him go insane. He had to figure this out. Now.

He got up and snatched his shirt, walking out into the cool night air. Once he was inside the base and fully dressed, he carefully snuck into the respawn room, staying quiet as he approached the calendar that hung on the wall. On it was classical pinup girls in provocative get-ups and positions*. He sometimes caught Scout looking at November’s sheila when he went through respawn. Mick was only in there to heal himself and get bullets.

Now he was there for a whole different purpose. He carefully pulled the pin out of the wall and took the calendar back to the camper van, pointedly not looking at it so he could settle this matter in private. Luckily, his mission went unnoticed by everyone else who was still up, and so he was left in peace.

Time to test his theory out.

* * *

Three hours. Three, long, hard, frustrating, and disappointing hours. No matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t even remotely attracted to those girls in the calendar. Even worse, the more he looked, the more bored with them he became. What was it about these images that got men going?

Mick could’ve blamed his inactivity and disinterest because of his exhaustion. He could’ve blamed it on the fact he didn’t really like socializing or many people. Hell, he could blame it on the fact a few of the women looked _far_ too young to be in a Playboy* calendar. Either way, this exercise was an absolute and complete _failure_.

Not only was he even more tired by the exertion of his arm, but he was also far more frustrated with himself. He was starting to think thoughts that he feared the most in his lifetime. Was he actually gay? Was he just not attracted to anything? What was it?

It was now obvious that women were off the table, but there were more options than just being gay. He dearly hoped he wasn’t gay. Not because he thought there was something _severely_ wrong with it, but because he hoped he never would have to explain to his mother that he never would see her again. He knew his father and many other men in Down Under wouldn’t hesitate to load a rifle and nod him off if Mick so much as step back into his home country as a fully realized pooftah. Asexual, that was easier. He’d just have a hard time explaining that he wasn’t giving them grandkids. And of _course_ they’d insist he adopt, but that was elderly nature when your child hasn’t lived up to the expectations of family life.

But how to test _this_ out? There was no way he was going to order a gay porn magazine. Mail was public, and that wasn’t something you showed off. And he certainly wasn’t going to invite spy back in his van to have a warm body.

Was there a scientific way of approaching this? No way would he go to a man who specialized in machines or chemistry, but he could just go to Medic…crazy as he was, Mick was desperate. And doctors were under doctor-patient confidentiality.

But he wasn’t a doctor.

But he was under contract to act as a doctor.

Good enough.

He managed to sleep that night, despite not eating dinner and all the stress that came to mind.

* * *

 

_Mick meandered to the bed area of the camper and reached into a compartment with his nondominant hand. With his other, more sure hand, he grabbed blindly in his bed, where he caught fabric in seemingly thin air, and threw him up and over his shoulder. He successfully flipped an invisible man over his back and into the floor, where the cloak disappeared and the spy was revealed, albeit, groaning in pain._

_“I knew it, ya snake!” Mick said triumphantly. “What were you doing in my camper?”_

_“Nothing terrible, I assure you…your van is safe…” the Frenchman muttered, climbing to his feet while rubbing the small of his back._

_“It’s a_ camper _.” Mick corrected. “I want a better answer._ What were you doing in my home?”

_The other man glanced at him before straightening himself casually._

_“I was wondering if there was anything else I should know about mon cher for future reference, as per to avoid any more…_ unfortunate _misunderstandings.” He said, waving a hand dismissingly._

_“Don’t mean you can just barge into me home uninvited!” Mick snapped._

_“On the contrary, you_ did _invite me.” Spy responded, almost chipper._

_“How, ya wanker?”_

_“You left the door open. Where I am from, an open door means an invitation...” Spy said, turning around to take a step towards Mick. Mick didn’t know why, but he wasn’t sure he liked that undertone, nor that look Spy was giving him. It was strange and foreign. Was it a French thing? Either way, it was making him nervous, and something was stirring where it shouldn’t be._

_“Where I come from, it means it’s bloody hot, and I’m airing out me house,” Mick said, covering his discomfort with a frown and a pointed glare. “My camper, my rules. And you weren’t invited, so get out.”_

_“Come now,_ mon cher _…surely you wouldn’t mind some form of…_ ’cultural enlightenment.’ _” Spy said smoothly. Now Mick was really uptight. He knew that had an undertone, and that made his body react in a way that was for too confusing for his own good. Why was he suddenly feeling very hot under the collar? And why did he feel like all the times when he was alone in the outback after a long day when he was focused more on his body functions? This made no sense…_

_“I’ll say it one last time before I throw you out. Get out of me house. Now.” He growled. Instead of being threatened, Spy seemed to only smile wider, his eyes becoming more fogged by that strange look._

“Oh, how you don’t know what that does to me…” _Spy sighed in French, slightly closing his steel eyes. This was enough for Mick to lunge. To his surprise, Spy embraced him and his hands went lower. Then the unthinkable. Spy took a handful of Mick’s ass. It clicked._

 _Spy really_ is _a_ pooftah. _And he was coming down on_ Mick _of all people. Mick was about to reach around to grab at Spook, but instead he melted into the touch, letting out a sound from his throat that was hardly fitting for such a rugged man as Mick. Spy took that as a good thing as his smile turned far more pleased and his hands grew bolder._

 _“You enjoyed that,_ mon cher _? Perhaps you would like to enjoy more?” he asked, his voice dipping low and causing Mick’s blood to pour south faster than any other time in his life. It was so shocking to him that he almost missed the sensation of lips on his neck. He instinctually moved his head away to give more access to his attacker, and he wasn’t disappointed. The kisses sent shivers up and down his body. They made a trail up his neck, to his jaw and finally at his right cheek. There was a heavy pause as their breaths mixed._

 _“…More,_ mon amour _?” Came the whispering inquiry._

_“More.” was all the command needed._

_Their lips connected and fire burst through Mick, licking and moving against him in all the right places. Or was it Spy’s hands that were touching him? He felt so vulnerable under the caressing of lips and fingertips, but he didn’t care. The sensations were so magnified and so wonderful._

_Mick didn’t know how long this continued. All he knew was that there was something building inside and an immense pressure began to form was someone pressing down on his lower abdomen? As soon as he thought this, there was an eruption as the pressure released and Mick screamed._

He actually screamed. He was sitting up, in his camper, drenched in sweat.

And he was alone.

Mick looked down slowly at himself and realized what had happened, his face burning with shame and confusion. He had a wet dream about another man. And that other man was _Spy. Of all the…_

The Australian groaned in frustration and looked over at the watch on his wrist and frowned. Three buggering hours he tried to wank off over slutty sheilas on a crinkled calendar and he didn’t even feel a twitch. _Ten minutes_ of dreaming about Spy and he came harder than he ever came in his life. Mick growled as he slid out of bed and jumped down onto the camper floor, going to the sink to wash his underpants and clean up.

He scrubbed the black boxers in the sink with cold water, his mind going back and forth as he stood naked in his camper. This was out of control. This had to end. Was he sick? Was he mentally ill? What was a guy to do?

He already decided that going to Medic in the morning was the best idea possible, but that _somehow_ didn’t make him feel better. He wanted to talk _now_. Not later. _Now_.

* * *

_This was a_ terrible _idea_.

Mick decided this in an instant after he placed the calendar back in its rightful place and stood in front of the medbay doors. They were big, heavy, and green. They looked sinister and clinical, rather much like a butcher’s shop rather than any proxy hospital. Still…

Against his instincts screaming and begging him to high tail it out of the base, he knocked on the medbay doors, taking a step back from the surface as if it was going to jump up and bite him. There was nothing but silence at first before there were footsteps and a rather irked voice.

“I’m not in any humor, Herr Heavy, for your-” The doors opened and a very tired German stepped out and paused at the sight of Sniper.

“Oh. Herr Sniper.” He said in slight relief. “What are you doing up so late at night? It's nearly two in the morning.”

“Uh…well…that is…” Mick tried, shuffling his bare feet slightly as he looked down at the tiled floor. This man was just downright terrifying. He sighed and tried again. “I’ve got a problem…”

“Naturally, otherwise you would not be coming to me,” Medic said, his business voice returning though perhaps it was far more sluggish than usual. “What is it?”

“I…I had a dream…” Mick began again. Medic gave an irritated sigh as he straightened his messy black hair.

“Herr Sniper, if you came here for philosophical answer, refrain from asking _me_ them. Especially at this early in the morning. Goodnight.” He began to close the door in dismissal, when Mick panicked and burst through it, shoving the German inside so he could get in himself.

“I had a wet dream about Spook. Am I sick?” Mick demanded, before relaxing the muscles he didn’t realize he was clenching and blushed in shame at how upfront he was being. The German looked ready to kill him when Mick shoved him and burst into the lab, but he froze when the words registered.

“‘Am I sick?’ That is honestly your question?” Medic asked slowly as if he couldn’t believe what the Australian was asking. Mick took this as a confirmation that he, in fact, was ill, and that the German couldn’t believe his stupidity for even questioning it.

“I thought I was…Sorry to bother you so early. Hope you get a kick at the obviousness of my illness.” Mick said, turning away. A hand landed on his shoulder.

“You misunderstand me, Herr Sniper.” The surrogate doctor said calmly. “I was not aware you believe homosexuality is a sickness.”

“Is it?” Mick asked, hopeful partially that it was. Then there’d be a cure, right?

“No. Homosexuality is neither a disease, virus, nor parasite.”

“Then what the hell is it!? It ain’t natural!” Mick exploded. Medic’s eye twitched and the lines in his face deepened.

“I am opposed to that type of thinking. Though typically, a man of my standing and ethics would not agree with my positive opinions of homosexuality, I have found through my personal participation that I must accept them and embrace it for the sake of my dignity and elation.”

…

“…You lost me there.”

“ _In other words_ ,” Medic snapped. “It is something you have to either accept or deny. If you are having dreams of that nature towards another male, then it is certainly possible that you may, in fact, be homosexual.”

“But I _can’t_ be! I’ve never felt anything like love or attachment towards anyone besides me mum and dad!” Mick cried, almost pleadingly at the medical man. Said doctor pinched the bridge of his nose

“Herr Sniper, it is early in the morning.” Medic sighed through grit teeth, rubbing his head tiredly. “I have just had a rough experience on social grounds, and I am in no mood to humor with denials and pointless arguments. Either you listen to me, or you go back to bed.”

Mick sighed and sat down in the swivel chair by the desk. Medic’s eyes narrowed.

“Out of the chair,” He said in a singsong warning tone. “You’re the patient.” He pulled up a stool for the taller man. Mick switched and Medic sat down with a sigh. He looked like he’d rather be in bed with a blanket around him and _not_ playing doctor with Mick. Well, in this case, mental guidance counselor.

“When did this happen? Tonight?” Medic started.

“Yeah,” Mick responded.

“I see…and you’ve never had anything like this before?”

“Nah.”

“What are your dreams about normally?” Medic asked, pulling out a clipboard and writing a few notes down. Mick gulped and hoped they weren’t going to be shared or placed in a report for all the world to see. Though if it was to be hand written, there would be no issue. The man’s handwriting was _atrocious_. Nothing but a spiky and hurried scribble.

“Me parents, hunting, home…do colors and shapes count? Mostly colors and shapes.”

“Ja…” medic murmured, his hand flying across the page. “alright, when you were younger, did _Mädchen_ ever interest you?”

“May-what now?” Mick asked dubiously. Medic rolled his baby blue eyes.

“ _Mädchen_.” He annunciated. “Women. Girls. Female homo sapiens.”

“Oh…no…but neither did men…”

“What of your parents, hm? Is one or both against homosexual feelings?”

“More like who _isn’t_ in Australia. It isn’t an accepted thing.”

“It hardly is here in America, never mind my home country of Germany.” Medic agreed, seemingly considering his past experiences, but his focus soon returned. “So your family is against it, and your country as well. And, this makes an impression upon you that it is wrong and, therefore, you cannot be or else you are tainted in some way, ja?”

“Well…yeah?” Mick offered. “You suggesting that…it ain’t developed over time? That someone is just…born that way?”

“Ja. Studies have suggested it, and I can tell you that it is very well founded.” The German’s eyes moved from his face down to the cross hanging from his neck and decided to turn the tables.

“God made everything, ja?” he started. Mick nodded and he continued. “It is said that he made everything good. If one is born that way and God made everything good, then how can someone who is homosexual be evil or deserve punishment or ridicule or prejudice? It is man who made the excuse to hate, not God.”

“But the bible says that a man can’t lay with another-”

“The bible was written by men. Religion _itself_ is made by man. I no longer believe in God. I cannot.” Medic said, his right hand ghosting over his left forearm. He shook his head as his eyes glanced at the clock. “To cut this meeting short, I’ll say this. In my medical opinion, your brain has suppressed your sexuality because of fear or of an event that put an emotional scar upon you. While psychology is not what I prefer, I do know this: for whatever reason, a recent event has opened up these new feelings and thus you are confused and perhaps overwhelmed by it.”

“So what should I do, go ask Spook to have a quick one in the van and see if I’m a proper pooftah!?” Mick snapped, his arms crossing stubbornly over his chest.

“Nein, I wouldn’t go that far,” Medic said, putting his pen and clipboard on the desk before standing. “More of, you should reflect on things calmly. No one knows of your conflict, and no one is going to go after you.”

“And you won't tell?” Mick inquired nervously, standing as well.

“Doctor-patient-confidentiality.” The German assured with a wave of his hand.

“Hardly. You’re not a doctor.” Mick pointed out. Medic only smiled in his signature way, as if he were in the middle of thrusting his hands in an open carcass and fingering the organs.

“ _Trifles_ , I assure you, Herr Sniper...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *There are calendars in some respawn rooms on some maps that have Pinup girls. not kidding.  
> *Playboy was created in the 1950s by Hugh Hefner to be a men's magazine. They also sold calendars of the same nature.


	6. Manic Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no * this time.

Mick knew upon waking that he was not in for a pleasant day. It all started in his camper, where he sat up all the way. Normally he would just roll out of his bed, but this morning, the ceiling high fived his face, almost laughing at him and jeering, “hahaha, prepare for a horrible day!” He supposed he should’ve paid attention to that. He wasn’t superstitious and wasn’t for the whole “everything has a meaning!” or “it’s a sign!”

Maybe he should’ve.

After cursing rather colorfully at his aching head and sliding out of bed, Mick stumbled his way over to the small square mirror in his camper van. It was dirty and rarely used, but it served its purpose. His head indeed did sport a small bump, but nothing serious, that was fine with Mick. The next thing to do is relieve himself.

Mick snatched the first empty jar he could see and did so. The goal of today was to remain a sense of normalcy. It was absolutely necessary that no one suspect him. Even more so, he was to make sure that _Spy_ didn’t notice any change. And really, what really did change about Mick? All he did was find out that he may be gay. So what? That wasn’t a big deal…except his father may shoot him dead.

_If you ever see him again._

That thought actually didn’t bother him too much. All his life, his father, Jonathan Mundy, was aloof, cold, and overbearing in expectations of what his son was supposed to be. Mick wasn’t about to spite his father for having expectations of him. But he would for bloody _threatening to kill him at eleven years old._ At the time, he didn’t think about sexuality. He merely assumed he wasn’t anything or just not ready for sheilas. There was such a thing as being late. But now that there was a possibility of being what his father would kill him over, he really wouldn’t argue if he was forced to never see his father again.

But never seeing his mum, _that_ was an issue. She supported him though it all, and was the one who understood him best. He would go to her for something, not his strict and distant father. But even she wasn’t free from Mick’s scrutiny. Though she supported Mick, she and stood up to her husband when he made the more than occasional snide remark towards their child, she was very weak in her attempts to control it. His father never did it in family reunions (the relatives seemed to do it enough all on their own), but at home, it was vicious. And his mother wasn’t a house shaker, or a family disrupter.

He was beyond that now, though. He could get past that with the fact that he no longer was in that household. He was an adult, he was in America, and he was self-sufficient.

He believed breakfast was in order, and if he recalled correctly, today was Engineer’s turn to make food, and he dearly hoped that he wouldn’t have to make food because it was furlough. As it turned out, the engineer had already planned ahead, and was busy cracking eggs in the rec room when Sniper walked in.

“Mornin’, Stretch.” The Texan said cheerfully, glancing at the Australian before going back to his task. “Sleep well?”

“Hm.” Mick said, shrugging a shoulder. He reminded himself to be normal and fall into his routine. He casually walked over and began making his daily dose of coffee, even though the brew was stale and characterless.

“You know, you don’t have to make any today if you don’t want to, Stretch.” Engineer said. “I mean, we aren’t working.”

“I’m making decaf. No point in waking up quite yet…” Mick responded, starting up the machine.

“Yeah, but…” Engineer looked at him with a slightly worried expression. “I see your face when you make it. I can tell you hate the stuff.”

“Hate’s a strong word, mate. I just don’t care for it. Once we can leave base, I plan on getting my own bag.” Mick corrected, rolling his shoulders to crack the bones there. The Texan glanced over at the sniper.

“Then what about the spy?” he asked. Sniper flinched at the mention of the root of his problems.

“I never said I hated him.” Sniper defended himself.

“Seems like you hate him.” The other man observed.

“How?” Mick knew that was a stupid question. It was obvious. But he just wanted to hear what the Engineer’s opinion was.

“Well, after you and him got into that fight about god knows what in respawn, it got real quiet after that.” Engineer said. “And it doesn’t help the image that you two bicker like an old married couple.”

 _Couple_. Old _married couple_. Why was that making him nervous and fidgety? Oh yeah, because of last night. But that’s just an expression! He isn’t implying…he doesn’t actually know…

Mick chuckled slightly at his words.

“Good one. But nah, I don’t think I hate him.” He said.

 _How can I after that dream? Wouldn’t make sense that I’d feel that sort of thing to him if I_ hated _him…right?_

“If you say so, Stretch.” Engineer said, not sounding like he was convinced. “But you know, if ya’ll ever need to talk to someone, my workshop is not too far a walk.”

“Thanks.” Mick said, taking his now ready coffee and pouring it into a mug. He wasn’t about to tell anyone anything. And while Engineer seemed trustworthy enough, Mick wasn’t easy to let his guard down. Especially such a sensitive subject as that. Even if the Texan was offering.

The scout walked in as if he had three pieces of chocolate cake (as in, he didn’t walk at all, but full out ran), and latched himself to Engineer, climbing over the shorter man with agility that could be compared to monkey.

“I sense pancakes!” He said quickly, excitedly. “Lemmie at em’! Lemmie at em’!”

“Woah, there, Jimbo!” Engineer exclaimed in half surprise, and half labored from the runner attacking him so. He managed to push the kid an arms length away. “They aren’t done yet. Ain’t even got the batter finished.”

“Well hurry the fuck up! Cuz the guys are waking up, and I wanna have my share!” he demanded stubbornly, even sticking is lower lip out in a slight pout.

“Watch your language. And you don’t have to worry. There’s plenty to go around, and if I run out, I’ll make more.” Engineer assured without missing a beat.

“Hey, I’m 18! I’m a legal adult!” Scout defended. “Why do I have to keep saying that!?”

“Perhaps you should then act like you are an adult, rather than a child.”

There was a hiss of a cloaking device lifting, and an all too familiar suave figure appeared on the other side of the counter, leaning against the surface with a cigarette in his hand, his eyes intently on the teen. There was a strange emotion on his face that was a little more than irked. One could even call it cold and disappointed. But what could’ve Scout done that made Spy disappointed in him, Mick had little idea. Scout could raise the Frenchman’s temper just by breathing alone. It could be anything, honestly.

“Fuck you, old man, I didn’t ask your opinion!” Scout snapped, gritting his teeth and slamming his fist on the counter, making most everyone jump, Mick included. The only ones who didn’t have an involuntary reaction was the two people in question. Spy, cool as ever, let Scout continue his tirade. “Ever since we got here, you’ve done nothing but bully and make snide comments about me! And unlike what you do to Snipes, you do it behind my back _and_ to my _face!_ I’m _sick_ of it! You really _are_ a backstabber!” Scout leaned forward and pointed a finger at the Frenchman with a snarl. “ _I hate you!_ ”

“ _Scout!”_ Engineer cut in sharply. Now the teen _did_ jump and his head whirled over to face the Texan, who was wearing a frown and pointing the egg-yoke covered whisk at him. “That’s _enough._ Either _you_ play nice, or you will _not_ get any pancakes. Now apologize-”

“What the hell _for!? He_ should be the one who-”

“Non, non, labor.” Spy interrupted, raising a gloved hand. “The one who should apologize is the father who failed to raise his child.” He said, almost devoid of any emotion. Scout was about to leap over the counter to get at him, but Mick was quicker, grabbing him around the waist and holding him back like he was wrestling a croc. To be truthful, Scout thrashed just as much, and growled just as loudly. In the meantime, Spy disappeared, leaving behind the smell of expensive cologne and vanilla cigarettes. And thus, the chase then became impossible.

“ _Let go of me, Snipes!”_ The Bostonian demanded.

“Then calm down, ya twitchy hooligan!” Mick commanded, holding tighter as if he were a steel trap that only squeezed more with every movement. “He’s gone now and by the time you get running, he’d be anywhere in base by then!”

“It ain’t worth it, son.” Engineer agreed, backing Mick up. Scout gave a few more pulls at the tight gripping arms before relaxing dejectedly, sighing with exasperation.

“Fine.” He muttered angrily. “Just lemme up…”

Mick slowly eased up on the hold and Scout practically shoved him off, growling at him like an animal. Sniper didn’t take offense. There were times when Spy made him feel like that as well, but he was more reserved to not break his promise to his mother upon no fighting. However, something in the pit of Mick’s stomach told him to go after the spook. It made no sense, since all he really wanted to do was _avoid_ the man. Nothing seemed wrong with him, so why go after him?

Mick took up his mug of coffee again and sipped it, frowning at the taste and the lack of true heat. Oh well. That was life for him. No matter what he did, something always poked at his buttons. He supposed that’s why he had thick skin in some places, but very sensitive in others. Nevertheless, he gave up on the coffee and went to sit in the most comfortable seat in the room: the half stuffed and torn apart armchair. It literally was better than the couch, but had the comfort of a bed of nails. Still, it was better than the couch.

Another set of footsteps soon met Mick’s sharp ears, and a new sight came before him. It made everyone in the room stare in shock, forgetting the momentary drama.

The immaculate and eloquent doctor that they all knew to be partially OCD with professionalism…was wearing wrinkled clothes, deeply frowning, dark circles under his eyes, glasses skewed, and feathers sticking out of his messed up hair.

“What happened to you? Did Archie explode from having too much bird seed?” Scout said, laughing slightly at his own joke. Mick looked away and tried to pretend he wasn’t in the room. No doubt he was grumpy from being bothered in the middle of the night. Medic paid no mind to the youngster and instead sat at the table running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it. He occasionally pulled out a feather or two. Scout opened his mouth to make further comment, but he was thwarted by Engineer, who smacked him with a wooden spoon.

“Rough night, doc?” the Texan asked in concern.

“You could say that. If you don’t mind, I would prefer not to speak of it.” Medic growled, glowering at the table. Mick raised an eyebrow. He really did intend to keep their conversation secret…it seemed he did have a smidge of a doctor’s morals left in him. Scout, however, was having none of this secrecy.

“Come on man! Talk it out!” Scout coaxed rather loudly. Engineer reached for the kid, but Scout was too quick, leaping over the counter and sliding over to the seat next to the grumpy German. Said German turned his head so he wasn’t looking at Scout, and Mick and him made eye contact.

Mick felt his blood go cold, but not because Medic was blaming him for his misery with his eyes. Rather, it was how _drained_ the man looked. Mick had seen that look in captured animals that had been in cages long enough to almost forget what the wild was. Medic wouldn’t be like this just because Mick asked a few questions. It was something bigger, wasn’t it?

“Scout, no.” Mick said, straightening in his seat, looking over at the runner. Scout stared at him incredulously.

“Naw man! It’s always better to get something off your chest instead of keeping it in! That’s what my ma always said.”

“Maybe for you boys, that’s how it is. But Medic already made it clear he doesn’t want to tell. Respect that, boy.” Engineer advised.

“Bullshit. I always talk things out!” Scout scoffed.

“Yes, we know.” Mick muttered. He was about to drag the kid away by his ear, but Medic beat him to it. Although his tactic wasn’t Mick’s style. A hidden scalpel and a scream later, Scout was on the floor, twitching and bleeding profusely. In Medic’s hand was the bloody muscle that was an aid in speech. The German tossed the tongue onto Scout’s seizing body as the boy went into shock.

“Doc, _respawn is off!”_ Engineer exclaimed.

“Respawn is in low power mode.” Medicine man said, almost bored. “It will just take longer than five minutes to spawn.”

“Come on mate, just put him back together!” Mick agreed with Engineer. Medic sighed and took out a container of medigun fluid, opening it and pouring it over the boy’s face, where it vaporized upon contact. Scout’s tongue disappeared and regrew back in his mouth. He shakily stood, still in shock and nauseous from the blood loss. He staggered over to the couch and gave a wide berth between himself and the German.

The room was thrown into silence as the shock of what just happened kept everyone on edge. Everyone, except, Medic. He actually almost seemed cheerful after what he did.

_Note to self: NEVER get on his bad side._

The German changed moods like a light switch once Heavy came into the room. He froze in the doorway when he saw Medic and almost looked embarrassed. Suddenly Mick remembered what the doctor had said before he realized it was Mick calling last night. He thought Mick was the heavy. And he said he was not in the mood for something…probably being bothered. It _was_ two in the morning. Heavy tried to avoid the German, but as soon as they locked eyes, Medic stood up and practically huffed his way out of the room, clearly pissed off at the Russian.

Mick covered his eyes with his hat. Heavy revealed that they had in fact a fight. A fight that was something of a serious matter. Mick asked what that would be, but the Russian remained closed lipped. Mick could respect that. He just hoped it didn’t involve anything so severe to effect battle. Engineer seemed to share the same idea, but as soon as he mentioned it, Heavy too left, seemingly needing to think this over. Or, it really _was_ severe enough to effect battle, and he didn’t realize it. Either way, it didn’t bode well.

Sniper shook his head and got up from the armchair, stretching his long limbs. He began to make his way to the door, where he would return to his camper, when Engineer called.

“Hey, Stretch!” he said, making mick stop. The Aussie looked over and a plate of pancakes was shoved into his empty hands.

“You didn’t eat last night.” Engineer said.

“There’s six pancakes on here.” Mick said in shock.

“Exactly.” Engineer smiled, pointing his spatula at the taller man. Mick sighed and just took them, wanting to be alone.

Being social was _hard._ He supposed that was his own fault though. He didn’t care to practice when he was young, so now he had the social capacity of a jar of piss. Speaking of which, he needed to relieve himself. He set the plate of pancakes down on a crate and went into his camper, snatching an empty jar. He wasted no time in exiting and going behind his camper, the direction that faced the desert and woods off in the distance. Of course, blocking the way was the chain link fence, making him grimace as he began pissing.

He felt so trapped, being fenced in. Tall, chain link fences were bad. Concrete walls were worse. He remembered how when he got his house, his parents harped on him not protecting himself properly, since he had no fence to border the property. Of course, that night, when the dingoes came a knocking, all he had to do was show them the barrel of his rifle and a bullet to the head and they were gone. He had a nice armchair throw made with the fur.

“ _Mon Dieu, never in my wildest dreams!”_

At the sound of the French language, Mick jumped and stopped relieving himself, stuffing his member back into his pants as quickly as he could. His bladder ached something fierce as it protested from being interrupted in its emptying. He tried to hold it in as he looked around for the source. There was a hiss and Mick whirled a 180º, and saw the Frenchman standing by the back end of his camper, his cigarette hanging off the tips of his fingers in shock, his face giving away the same emotion. His eyes, though…they were staring at a place that no man should ever stare at on another man.

“Bloody hell Spook! Get yer eyes off my-why are you- _UGH_! _Privacy_ , ya wanker!” Mick yelled, unable to finish a sentence.

“Apologies.” Spy responded, though not looking sorry in the slightest. He turned around so his back was to the other, and waved a hand nonchalantly. “Please, continue. I will discuss my business afterwards.”

Mick frowned deeply but got going, his bladder crying in ecstasy. When he finished, he closed the jar and walked past Spy, not looking at him.

“What do you want, Spook?” he snapped.

“I wished to discuss what happened last night.” Spy said, his face growing serious. Mick froze in his tracks as he remembered the grabbing, the confusing emotions, and the overall attempts to prove to himself that he _wasn’t gay_.

“Which thing? The fact that you broke into my camper, or the fact that you grabbed my ass?” Mick demanded, narrowing his eyes as he glared at him. Spy didn’t seem too bothered by the other’s anger.

“The latter.” He stated. Mick groaned and put the jar on a separate crate and picked up the plate of pancakes.

“Do we _have_ to? I just want to _forget it_.” Mick almost whined, desperate to get away from the man that has caused him so much trouble in his subconscious. Spy placed a hand on his shoulder, the Australian tensing up.

“Oui. We have to.” He insisted. “Though preferably in a more secluded place, for both of our sake’s.”

Mick huffed but resigned to get it over with. He knew he was going to have to deal with this eventually, so why not do it quickly? Mick stiffly nodded and Spy motioned for him to follow. He led him back into base, twisting through halls and eventually going to a wooden door. He opened it and motioned for Sniper to enter first. Mick sighed and did so.

_I’ll play it your way._

He took one look around and felt his breath stop.

_On second thought, never mind._

The room was dimly lit by the luxurious lamps and windows. It screamed wealthy European, and the furniture was well designed with plush cushions and fine wood. There was a miniature alcohol bar and plenty of bookshelves. One thought crossed his mind when his eyes went to the fireplace: Romance. He heard the door closed and it made him flinch, and Spy gave him a half humored look.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“More like regretting this decision.” Mick admitted. Spy hummed and told him to sit. Mick took the couch, and Spy sat in the armchair.

“I would offer a brandy, but it’s far too early for that.” Spy said, crossing his legs. Mick shrugged and messed with the brim of his hat in his lap. He didn’t care for small talk, and at the moment, it was only prolonging his pain.

There was silence between them as Mick refused to look at Spy, only staring at what was safe. That being his hat. He would look at the couch and get images of them on it together, doing things. He would look at the Persian rug and get even _more_ images, though far more explicit. He would glance at the paintings and nearly feel himself have a heart attack when he had a thought of him and Spy against the wall…

“What are you feeling, Micheal?” Spy asked. Mick’s grip on his hat tightened at the usage of his full name.

“To be honest, not happy.” Mick said.

“Why is that?” the other man asked from his seat.

“Because you are using my name, and I don’t know yours. Hardly fair.” Mick growled. There was another pause.

“I meant how you were feeling about last night.” Spy specified. “At first, I believed nothing was wrong, but considering how jumpy you have been, I knew we had to address it. Settle this matter.”

“Bloody damn well _right_ something is _wrong_!” Mick snapped. “Ye broke into my personal space and even felt me up ye Pooftah!”

Spy sighed and remained calm.

“I see.” He murmured, folding his hands in his lap. “I admit, I do get… _passionate_ , at times.”

“ _Passionate_?” Mick gawked. “ _That’s_ what you call it? It’s ruddy well _wrong_ , that’s what _that_ is!”

“Let me finish, Monsieur Sniper!” Spy demanded. Mick mumbled grumpily, but went silent.

“I admit, it was extremely uncalled for.” Spy explained. “There are lines not to cross, and I leapt over the boundary. This is all…new, for me.”

“How the bloody hell is this new for you?” the Australian countered, crossing his arms.

“For one, I have never chased after a man before.”

“So you _were_ coming down on me!” Mick accused.

“Yes, I am highly interested in you.” Spy agreed, nodding once. “But as I said, I know how to woo women, not men. Especially men that are not experienced.”

“Experienced in what?” Sniper asked.

“In dating others of the same sex.” The Frenchman clarified. “I am not…In the relationship, I am not the offensive force, nor the one to take the initiative to flirt and sweep the other off his feet.”

“So what you are saying is that you prefer to be the Sheila.” Mick said.

“I wouldn’t put in such a way, but yes, I suppose I am.” Spy allowed, frowning at the suggestion that he was placed in the category of ‘woman’ when his gender identity was very well solid, mind and body.

“But you know how to get women in your bed and still pretend you’re straight?” Mick asked, a hint of jealousy in his voice. He wished he could pretend. If he could pretend, then he wouldn’t be so confused about himself.

“I am Bisexual.” Spy stated flatly. “My services as a Spy _rarely_ called for me to take care of men in the same way, and if it did, the target would be the one who did all the work to chase _me,_ rather than the other way around. Because of that, I have more practice with women, rather than men. To be entirely truthful, I rather not be the one chasing.”

“So what you’re saying is that you want to be doted on and flattered, rather than manning up and just saying what you feel?” Mick summed up.

“How dare you-” The spook stopped and sighed. “I _know_ that’s what it sounds like. But it’s only partially that…its more of just not being used to…I am not used to being so naturally attracted to another man. I hardly know what to do.”

“Well for one, you don’t go _insulting_ them!” He jabbed.

“I was teasing.” Spy huffed, though his tone turned sincere. “But if I ever have offended, which obviously I have unintentionally, I sincerely offer you my greatest regrets, and apologize.”

Mick was silent and sighed in acceptance.

“Tell me what you feel, _exactly_. I need to know that we both are on the same page, not assuming stuff about the other. Since you broke into my camper and assume its ok to meddle in my privacy, _you_ go first.”

Spy nodded and sat a little straighter in his chair, if that was possible. He looked Mick dead in the eyes through the other’s aviators and spoke with a truthful voice.

“I find you very handsome. I adore your physical attributes and your simplistic ideals on life. I also find your rustic aesthetic very pleasing, as well as charming. Lastly, I enjoy your sensitivity. All these attributes…have made me wish to know you better.”

Mick couldn’t believe his ears. For one so classy and uptight, he really was coming down on Mick, and it didn’t seem like he was only after a good time. He doubted a man would go this far just to use him, especially if they had to be near each other for the next few years. However, he cleared his throat and pushed the begrudging flattery aside.

“So you broke into my camper?” he asked.

“Again, I hardly know what to do.” Spy responded, chuckling a little.

“Should’ve asked me without making any comments that could make me want to slug you in the face.” Mick said, leaning back on the couch so that he was lounging.

Spy was silent for a moment and gazed over at the coffee table.

“What do you feel towards me? What is going though your mind?” he asked quietly.

“You confuse the hell out of me.” Mick started. Spy looked up at him and his eyes begged him to continue. “You insult me one minute and then you go and do a nice thing for me, like the coffee and the respawn incident. You break into my van and snoop, and then you…do _that_. At first I thought you were an everyday bully that I had to deal with back in Australia. But after listening to you…I don’t know what you want.”

Another silence as the words sunk in. Mick looked down at his shoes and played with his hat a little more.

“If you will allow me, I would like to show you.” He heard Spy. Mick shrugged.

“Fine, if you think that’s possi-”

A hand moved to Mick’s jaw and pulled the other’s face upwards to meet a pair of soft fleshy muscles that moved against Mick’s mouth. There was a slight scratch stubble that slid across Micks chin, and another hand ran through his brown locks, two noses lightly bumping against one another. It suddenly made sense, and Mick’s face burned red at the realization.

_Spy was kissing him._


	7. Much Needed Closure

Mick was frozen, torn between shoving the other into the fireplace and taking a page from Pyro’s handbook, and wanting to join his actions, regardless of knowing absolutely _nothing_ about kissing. He went with the happy medium: pushing the man off and as far away from him as possible. Spy stared in shock at the Australian, who likewise shared the same look, each surprised by the other’s action.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking!?” Mick yelled in horror, wiping his mouth to get the taste of the other man off his lips.

“Moi!? Why did you push me _away_!?” Spy exclaimed likewise.

“Bloody fucking hell, _I’m ruddy well straight!”_ Mick stressed in a much quieter voice.

Forget loud noises; the silence was deafening to both men. Spy was the first to move, collapsing into his armchair with a hand over his eyes.

“Mon dieu…” he murmured, his entire posture deflated from the proud classy man to a crumpled sufferer of depression. Mick couldn’t think of anything to say as he simply just watched the spy for further reaction. He was not disappointed.

“I would normally be angry for you to be leading me on, but it seems you are absolutely _clueless_ of doing so.” He said, his hand lowering to reveal his familiar cold cerulean eyes. They were freezing over with frigid disappointment and resentment, though his face was neutral. Mick sighed.

“I-I’m sorry…” he managed out from under the heavy stare he was being given. “I…guess I thought it was obvious.”

“Non. It never is.”

“Well I-

“Save it.” Spy cut in, standing up. “It was my mistake, and I would prefer if you would not remain here another moment in my presence, as of it is torturous for me. I am only ashamed of what my feelings were, and how foolish I have been. I only hope that my honesty means something to a _professional_ with _standards_ such as yourself.”

Mick gulped and looked down at his shoes in pain as the words tore at him. He _wasn’t_ being honest. He knew that. He didn’t really tell Spy that he wasn’t sure what his preference was. He also didn’t really say that it was because of _him_ he was confused about his sexuality.

“Look, I-

“Leave me.” Spy interrupted again, turning around so that his back was to mick. The Sniper frowned and stood.

“Will you just let _me_ get my say in this?” Mick demanded, joining him at his level by standing. Spy didn’t move, but didn’t say a word either. This was invitation enough.

“I haven’t been very honest with you…and I’m sorry. The truth is…I don’t know what I am.”

Spy lifted his head a little in his direction and Mick continued.

“I’ve never actually been with anyone because I haven’t felt anything. For a long time, I thought I was broken down there, because there wasn’t a person I saw that made me feel like they could be more. Not even in sex.”

Spy slowly turned around to look at him.

“But then I realized that I didn’t feel anything towards _sheilas_.” Mick said, growing a little more confident. “And in my experiences of seeing gays…even just the mention of them…I’m not prejudiced, but me dad would outright take a rifle to anyone who dared claim gay openly. And not just him either. Hell, my entire homeland would put a bullet through my head if I go back. And I don’t want to pretend, because that would be living a lie, wouldn’t it? And that’s against my standards. I suppose you could say that I am…well, I guess there are more things I am confused about than just you.”

Spy’s gaze did not waver as he spoke and when he was finished, he retained his watchful eye as he regarded him.

“Are you…mocking me?” he asked.

“No! I’m not! This ain’t easy for me to admit, you know!” Mick exasperated, frustrated. Another moment under Spy’s eyes, before he turned back to the unlit fireplace.

“I see…” he said under his breath. “So your familial ties as well as ethnicity have caused you to repress your feelings out of fear?”

“Maybe…I don’t know. Talk to me subconscious about that. And when you do, be sure to send me a message on what it says.” Mick said, feeling very awkward and overall just wanted to run. Be alone, not have to worry about all of this.

“I cannot say I understand your mentality, and I can hardly speak to your subconscious.” Spy said formally, turning his head to look back at Mick. “But I believe I can accept that.”

Mick wasn’t sure if he should be happy or not about that.

“Right, er…so where are we now?” Mick asked. Spy turned fully around.

“You need to figure out what you want, and fully understand yourself. Sort out your own confusion. I have made it clear what I want.” he took out his cigarette case and put one between his lips. “Now I believe it is time for you to find what you want.”

 

* * *

 

Sniper trudged back to his camper in silence, wondering just what he had gotten himself into. He swore he wouldn’t tell anyone his new revelation, but somehow the spy had made him feel like he was obligated to tell him. Of course, they swore on secrecy about what transpired in his smoking room, but that was little comfort. He was in a limbo on whether or not Spy was to be trusted. Furthermore, he felt the need to just get away from it all.

When he was back in the Outback, all he had to do was get in his camper van and drive. Here, he was stuck, literally fenced in. In a cage. And the administrator _owned him_. He never really thought about it before, but that really was what it was like. She knew everything, or at least that was what was suggested by Miss Pauling. He wasn’t about to sneeze at having an employer like that. However, it did prove to be a hassle of some sorts.

When he got back to the camper, he was shocked to find Scout sitting on a crate, stuffing his face with Mick’s abandoned pancakes. Mick couldn’t bring himself to care. He would probably just make those rabbits he had caught earlier.

“Hey man. I saw you didn’t eat these, and I tried knocking on your van door to see if you minded, but you never answered. Shame to let ‘em go to waste, ya know?” the runner said, after he saw Mick. He shrugged as a response.

“It’s a camper. But sure.” Mick said, walking up to him.

“I thought you wouldn’t. Besides, a big bird was flying around and nearly got to ‘em before me.

“Oh?” Mick asked, for once actually interested. He had hardly seen any wildlife other than the rabbits, jackals, and buzzards. And wild animals were his waterloo.

“Yeah, definitely wasn’t one of those flea ridden pigeons Doc has. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“What did it look like?” Mick asked, barely controlling his excitement.

“Kinda grey. About the size of a toaster. Big eyes.” Scout said, finishing up the last pancake. “Swooped down and had big ass claws.”

“Talons.” Mick corrected, taking the plate from Scout so that he could wash it inside. Scout gave him a curious look, following him inside.

“Huh?”

“Talons.” Mick repeated, going to the kitchen area of the rec room. “They’re not claws, they’re talons. Any other characteristics?”

“Kinda black spotted or speckled…there a difference?”

“Spots are more round. Speckles are a little more abstract.”

Mick turned on the water and began scrubbing the glass plate, the soap foaming up and lathering over the smooth surface.

“Speckled, then.” Scout decided. “And it flew silently. Like, _really_ quiet! It came out of nowhere!”

“So it was an owl then.”

“What? No, it had ears. Owls don’t have ears.”

“Some species of owls have feathered tufts that look like ears. My guess we have a Western Screech Owl here.”

“Huh? That makes no sense. There’s nothing here for it to eat!”

“You’d be surprised what an owl will eat. Hand me that rag.”

Scout fetched it.

“Will it eat pancakes?”

“If it gets desperate enough, they may go after human food. But I would think there are lots of mice and rodents around here. Maybe even insects.”

“It won’t attack _us_ will it?” Scout asked nervously, but then coughed. “Not that I’m worried or anything.”

Mick rolled his eyes, not believing a word he was saying.

“Not unless you go near its nest with its babies in it. To be honest, I’d be more worried about Soldier setting off a loose rocket, or an errant bullet killing it.”

Scout was silent as Mick put away the dish, which surprised the Australian. However, that was soon broken.

“How do you know this stuff?” he asked.

“When you live with wildlife around you, its smart to know about what you’re dealing with. I was a big game hunter and tracker, and that meant I would live in the wild for weeks at a time. I learnt stuff along the way, and eventually read a few books on animals.”

“Huh…that’s pretty-”

_Weird? Strange? Reclusive? Creepy?_

“Awesome!” Mick had to stop drying the dish and look at the runner properly.

“Wot- I mean, what?” he asked.

“That’s freaking awesome! I mean, all that freedom and time to yourself? Man, with seven older brothers and a ma that never stops bothering you, I mean I love ‘em and all, but sometimes I wanted time to myself, ya know? And being _really_ alone sounds awesome!”

“Oh…” Mick muttered, not expecting that answer. It made sense. After all, if Mick had to deal with a large family _all the time_ , he probably would’ve gone insane. But most people who knew about his lifestyle back in Australia thought he was a van rapist or murderer. While the latter was true to an extent, he was affronted that people thought that he… _ugh_. Granted, he was sure that there were people like that, but he wasn’t one of those people. He was just a loner.

The scout stretched and looked over at the hallway.

“I think I need to go for a run. Burn off all those pancakes I ate.” He said, walking towards the door.

“What are you, a weight concerned Sheila?” Mick muttered.

“I _heard_ that.” Scout called. “I’d like to keep my speed up for battle on Monday. Can’t laze around all the time when I got an awesome work out schedule!”

And with that, Mick was alone again.

 

* * *

 

 

For the next few days, the cycle continued in this way. Scout would suddenly appear on his lawn or knocking on his door, asking something or another and then carried on the conversation to other things. Mick didn’t know what to make of it. He always preferred to be left alone, but somehow Scout didn’t seem to bother him. Yes, he talked excessively. Yes, he made some ignorant assumptions. But much to the Australian’s surprise, he wasn’t a bother. He only stayed around for about twenty minutes before making an excuse to run off. Mick didn’t know what caused the runner to come back to him, but he had to admit, it was…nice. Nice to have someone think you are worth your time.

Speaking of that, the spy had all but disappeared. Well, he didn’t _leave_ base, but he did stop making comments and such to the outdoorsman. He seemed preoccupied with _ignoring_ him all over again. But this time, it wasn’t a cold ignoring. More or less, it was a “giving you space” ignoring. One that Mick appreciated.

It was broken once Monday came around. To everyone’s great relief, the dynamic duo had settled whatever conflict had arisen, and were happily together at breakfast. Spy, as if on cue to this good news, took the initiative to poke fun at him. Mick now knew he wasn’t doing it to be cruel, so he didn’t argue back as hard. Or at least, he thought he didn’t. Engineer still saw it fit to step in. No matter. It was better no one knew of their conversation.

_Crikey, I could’ve gone through the entire workday without thinking of that._

That kiss had haunted him for the better part of the extended weekend. At night, he would remember those lips on his own, and think about how tumbled he was about it all. The spy had made it obvious at last that he was attracted to him, and wanted a relationship. He did a quick scan of the paperwork and the rules, and found that while relationships were allowed, there would be no fraternizing with the enemy, nor should it effect their work on the battlefield.  One part off his conscience.

But what do people _do_ in relationships? Yes, they hold hands and kiss and hug and maybe have sex, but what else was there? Sounded like a lot of unnecessary touching to Mick. Furthermore, there was flattering, complimenting, and giving involved, things that the spy liked. But truthfully, Mick wasn’t sure he could give those things to him. If he even wanted a relationship.

These thoughts were carried on into the battlefield. Where they had a stalemate. It was embarrassing. Mick knew he would have to go through respawn after the supposed invincible and terrifying Pyro kept on drowning. It was discovered by the enemy scout that if you run around enough and get the firebug to play chase, you could lead them anywhere. And another discovery: Pyro couldn’t swim. Mick almost felt sorry for them. If they weren’t so creepily childish.

The same went for the heavy: after he visited respawn more than most on the team, once even saving the German doctor’s life (in vain, unfortunately), it became clear that Mick was bound to go through as well. However, he managed to avoid it more than the others. He kept on changing his location and even killed the Blu Spy a few times. It seemed the spy didn’t know the base as well, and thus, he was given almost free reign.

He had accepted that he may be gay. Why not accept that he was going to hell? He had killed enough people. Australium may not be in the mix called respawn, so that only left hell. If he truly was damned, then it was ok to die every once in a while. Besides, if he already used respawn once and Australium was involved, he already was doomed for nothing. Why not come to terms with it?

At the end of week, he stumbled his way back to his camper for some needed TLC. He had a blistering headache from respawn nausea, and the added on sounds of the private war. They had lost every battle since the stalemate on Monday. All he wanted was to be ruddy well alone. However, he knew that he had said he would cook something for them all over the fire.

Speaking of which, he probably should begin to build a fire-pit. He got out his camping kit from his home and dug a small pit in the ground before gathering rocks. He was about half done piling the rocks as a safe barrier when Scout jogged over, sweat still clinging to his body as well as the blood of the fallen Blu members.

“I guess it got cancelled. Everyone just doesn’t want to be around each other.” The Bostonian said, shrugging a little. Mick sighed and just finished the ring of stones. Why waste all that effort? Getting Scout on board was no issue. He even ran into the house and grabbed some hotdogs. Sticking them onto a stick, they roasted them in the small makeshift cooker in relative silence. Or at least, Mick was. Scout just chatted away about battle and how awesome his kills were. Eventually, Mick interrupted a particularly long spiel to ask him what was on his mind.

“Roo, why do you hang around me?”

The scout stared and took a bite off the hotdog in his hand. Mick elaborated.

“I’m not the type to make friends, and I’m not the choice person to _be_ friends with. So why do you hang around?” Mick said, staring at the flames, his glasses hanging from his shirt. Scout shrugged a shoulder.

“Cuz you listen to me. I mean, maybe you don’t, but you don’t tell me to shut up either. The others tell me to shut up every time I open my mouth. But you don’t.”

“Everyone?”

“Well, Engie is more of a ‘don’t you have something better to do?’ kind of guy. Pyro is just a freak, and I don’t talk to freaks.”

Mick sighed and shook his head.

“You ever say that to their face?”

“Huh?”

“The pyro. You ever say that to Pyro’s face?”

“Uh, yeah. And then it burns me with its lighter! And it _fucking_ laughs!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t offend them then. Seems like Pyro doesn’t have anyone to talk to either.”

“Yeah it does. Engineer and that thing are literally holding hands!”

“Literally?” Mick asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Ok, maybe not _literally._ ” Scout admitted. “But they are friends.”

Mick hummed and Scout continued.

“You also seem to take care of yourself.” He said. Mick stared at him incredulously. Scout waved his hands to tell him to hear him out. “I mean you don’t rely on anyone else to live. You got everything under control, ya know?”

Mick shook his head.

“I may be self sufficient, but you keep telling yourself that I got me life together. No one’s is.”

 

* * *

 

 

Spy was missing. Not just a “he has cloaked and is sneaking around” kind of disappearing. No, he was full on off base. No one that Mick talked to had seen him, nor had any idea where he was. But the most interesting reaction he got was from Scout. Scout didn’t just tell him no, he didn’t know. He full on yelled that he had no clue and that Spy could go die in the pits of hell for all he cared. This made Mick take off his sunglasses to get a better look at the runner.

“You alright, roo?” he asked.

“I’m _fine!_ Just _fucking fantastic!”_ Scout snapped. Mick sighed and leaned against the wall. This wasn’t his forte, but he supposed if he was going to work with the men he might as well practice talking to them. In all of their moods.

“Alright, what happened between you and Spook?” he said, remaining in a clam voice. Scout only stared at the floor with a scowl, the intensity being enough to unnerve the Australian. Eventually Mick grabbed his arm and led him to the loft of the shooting range. There, they could talk in private. Only then did Scout open up.

“He was getting all personal with me.” he started.

“Ok…why?” Mick prompted.

“I don’t fucking know! He was going off about how my family life was with the whole 20 questions deal! And then he goes and asks about my ma and my dad.” Here he scoffed. “As if I ever knew the bastard who ran away. He’s what I call a fuck-and-run. You know, like a hit-and-run car crash? Well same thing except fucking.”

“You told him?” Mick inquired.

“Well, yeah!” Scout shrugged. “I also said that if I ever met him, I’d fucking bash his brains against the apartment parking lot where we all used to live. And he got all silent with me. All moody for some damn reason. I tell ya, spies don’t make any sense…”

“Ok…so why are ye mad at Spook?” Mick asked, not entirely sure what could be the issue other than Spy pushing some buttons.

“Because he said that maybe I shouldn’t judge so quickly! Why the fuck not!? Nothings as important as family, so what is my dad’s goddamn excuse for leaving? Because he’s a fucking coward, that’s why! Spy doesn’t understand anything!”

Mick nodded as he listened, sighing a little. He sat down on a crate and motioned for Scout to do the same. The youngster shook his head and just settled with pacing across the loft in distress, kicking a few nails and hay clumps as he went.

“Look Roo, I cant say I know what its like to have no father in your life, but I can say me and my dad have a very shaky relationship.” Mick said, hoping that was the right thing to say.

“What’s the matter with your old man?” Scout asked. Mick was honestly surprised that he thought something was wrong with his _dad_ and not the relationship.

“Only that he has certain standards for me, and they just aren’t possible.” Mick said, almost sorry he got into that.

“Like?”

Mick gave him a look.

“Settle down with a Sheila, give him grandkids, give up my way of life, and become the ideal Australian with huge muscles, lots of chest hair and a mustache.” Mick said, a little irked.

“Oh.” Scout murmured, crossing his arms. “That why you really hate it when Spy pokes at your height and limbs?”

“I suppose.” Now it was Mick’s turn to shrug. Scout shook his head and crossed his arms.

“Stinking Spies…literally, he stinks! It’s like he never washes that mask!” Scout said, throwing his hands into the air. Mick thought it not a smart idea to ask Scout _when_ Spy would have the time to wash his mask.

“Don’t like the smell of cigarettes?” Mick said instead.

“That and his fucking perfume.” Scout grumbled.

“I think its cologne.”

“Whatever! It’s too fucking fancy and it smells like shit!”

Mick wasn’t about to admit that it wasn’t horrible. In fact, it actually brought out his natural musk, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It was the smell of cigarettes that bothered him more.

“Blu spy is worse. He wears the cheap stuff you get in bathrooms.” Mick said, chuckling. “He got so pissed the one time I said he must dunk himself in toilet water every morning because he smells so much like shit. Missed my back by a mile and ended up falling out the window.”

That was the perfect thing to say to Scout. He burst out laughing and didn’t stop until he was on the floorboards and rolling in the hay. When he was good and done, his cheeks were tearstained and he had to catch his breath. Pieces of hay stuck out in weird places as he chuckled.

“Oh-ho-ho man! I’ve _got_ to use that on our Spy.”

Mick resisted the urge to wince.

“Er…remember you gotta live with him. So maybe its better if you don’t get on his bad side.” He suggested. Scout thought for a moment.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’ll just put a frog in his suit pants and say its his cousin trying to get in his pants. I’m sure there are some in the sewers.” Scout started to leave when he paused at the ladder.

“Oh, uh…thanks for listening, Snipes.” The Bostonian said, not used to using those words sincerely. Mick smiled a small grin and nodded.

“All good, mate.”

An hour later, and Mick was strolling across base from the training room towards the rec room where his camper was parked. Perhaps he would get a coffee while he was at it. However, just as he began whistling “Beyond the Sea*” he was suddenly grabbed by an invisible hand and dragged down a side hall. There was only one person it could be.

“Spook, what the hell are you doing!?” he yelled.

“Be _quiet_ , mon amour!” the Frenchman hissed as he pulled Mick into the rarely trekked hall. “We have _issues_ on our hands.”

“Well, we’ll have _more_ issues if you don’t get your _ruddy hands off me_!” He snapped, but being quieter as per his request. Spy did so and decloaked. His face looked worried and his gaze kept flickering to their surroundings to see if anyone was listening.

“I was off base.” Spy started.

“No shit!” Mick growled.

“Would you _please_ let me speak, mon amour!”

Mick was about to snarl at the Frenchman, but the expression of utter panic and unease was what won him over to remain silent. Besides, he was still trying to get used to this new strange nickname Spy started using on him. It seemed a little odd, but non threatening. However, that was a minor issue in comparison to a very shocked and frazzled spy.

“As I was _saying_ ,” here Spy gave him a sharp look of annoyance. “I was off base. I was given a snooping job.”

“The administrator give you that job?” Mick asked. If he left base without permission, it was suicide. How would he not get caught? He may be the best of the best, but the administrator sounded like the person you wouldn’t even invite for tea, much less get on her bad side.

“If only, mon amour.” Spy hissed sarcastically. “However, I would very well doubt that the administrator would hire me to steal from her.”

“You _WHAT?_ ” Mick exclaimed, his eyes bulging over his aviators at the other man and his indeed suicide feat.

“ _Quiet!_ ” Spy shushed. “I am fully aware how my actions may seem reckless-”

“No bloody well shit!”

“Michael, I swear, if you do not let me get more than one two words out, I _will_ backstab you again.”

Mick frowned but had to agree. A backstabbing was not a pleasant experience, and respawn wasn’t much better.

“Medic requested my services. Now, _normally_ I wouldn’t dare do something so stupid as to steal a teammates file contents. I just peruse at my leisure. Regardless, I felt after these two weeks, stabbing the same three people becomes rather tiresome and monotonous.”

“ _Translation_?”

“I was _bored_.”

That seemed to be a rather trivial thing for the spy to feel with his immaculate countenance and self image. However, this new realization made him seem all the more human. Mick had seen him angry, disappointed, caring, and even saddened. However, _bored_ had never made it to that list until now.

“Still pretty stupid.” Mick chided.

“For more reasons than you know.” Spy sighed. Micks eyes narrowed.

“He wanted Pyro’s file.” Spy admitted. “Specifically documents before a certain medical procedure and any diaries kept since then.”

Mick stared.

“So…he wanted the pyro’s record?”

“Yes. But for some reason, the administrator is particularly touchy about that mumbling abomination.” Spy said, showing a hint of surprise. “She has very specific criteria and expectations. Now _what_ he plans on doing with that information is beyond me. I normally would not care, except he has involved me.”

Mick waited for him to keep talking.

“Ok…” he said, shrugging a little. Spy glanced over at him and sighed.

“In any other situation I would not give away such sensitive information, but I don’t think you understand the severity behind Medic’s lack for caution and messing with a maniac. When I use the term ‘maniac’ I do not exaggerate. I have _read_ those diaries. They are _sick_. And I believe that Medic does not have good intent. You’ve seen what he has done so far! He makes men into killing machines! What would he do with an already locked and loaded psychopath?”

“So why tell me all this?” Mick asked, wishing that Spy hadn’t. Frankly, he preferred to think the Pyro as the child of the team, but after hearing what Spy had to say, it only made him feel nauseated. They _lived_ with this person.

“Because…I wish to know if Pyro would indeed be a threat. I do not wish for death by fire _again_. So, the only way to Pyro is the Engineer. And you have more reason to speak with the man-”

“No.” Mick cut him off. “Absolutely not.”

“What? Why not?” Spy demanded.

“As interesting as that is mate, I’m not going to be a part of your little scheme. You do your spying. Leave me out.” Mick stated firmly.

“Mon amour, please.” Spy said, beginning to sound like he was about to bargain. “Do you honestly believe that the toymaker would listen to me? Especially on this subject?”

“What makes _me_ any different?” Mick shot back. “I don’t talk to him! I have no excuse to talk about something like that! _Especially_ Pyro! I have no reason to talk to Truckie. _None_!”

“Come now, you cannot be that blind, can you?” Spy said, though he did not say it in a hurtful way.

“Wot- I mean, what are you implying?” Mick asked.

“Take a wrench to your van, unplug a few things and call in Engineer! There, a valid reason to talk to him!” Spy cried.

“That’s lying and using someone. That goes _against my code, mate!”_ Mick hissed.

A silence went between the two men, and Mick almost believed he had won. However, he was surprised by the softening of Spy’s features.

“You just called me your friend…” Spy murmured. Mick had to do a double take and backtrack all that he said before realizing that he did indeed.

“Y-yeah…I guess I did…” he murmured. Spy placed a hand on his shoulder, and Mick for once didn’t flinch at the contact.

“Mick, please.” The European begged. “I wish to know why Medic would send me off base against contract terms to steal something from the administrator of all people. This does not bode well for me, nor our Medic. He is being reckless and getting people involved in his sick humored experiments. He may not be a Nazi, but he very well could be with all that he has done.”

“What do you mean?” Mick murmured, uneasy about what _other_ disconcerting things their teammates do.

“There was one file I was unable to reach because it was being processed while I was in the administrator’s records. That one was Medic. You think I would not pass up that opportunity?”

“No, I guess not…what did it say?”

“Those stories that he told us on the operating table?”

“Yeah?”

“All of them are true! And they are not even the worst he has done!”

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Mick breathed out, trying to take it all in. He knew Medic was a strange one, and perhaps a little eccentric, but this…he felt stupid for even forgetting that the men he was working with were dangerous mercenaries regarded as the best in the world.

“Indeed. We have a childish madman playing medical professional! And _we_ are the _patients!_ ” Spy cried, looking horrified just by saying it. Mick sighed.

“…Look mate, I get that this is all…well, it’s unnerving to say the least, but I don’t want to get involved.”

There was a momentary silence as Spy paced a little. He seemed to be thinking hard, and when he was satisfied with his thought, he turned back to the taller man.

“I’ll help you get off this base so you can take care of your internal conflict about me.” He offered.

_Well that was unexpected._

“Wot?” Mick asked, so confused that he couldn’t even bother to correct himself.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.” Spy explained. “It’s a mixture between wanting to throwing up and acceptance to my attentions. Furthermore, you have insulted me far less, but enough for the others not to notice too much. And I know you snuck off with that calendar in respawn. Didn’t help?”

Mick felt himself blush and he looked away in embarrassment. He wanted to question how he found out, but he figured that since he was the spy who could get off base without anyone knowing…he would be willing to bet that he could do just about anything he wanted.

“No…” he admitted at last.

“I expected so.” Spy murmured, though he didn’t sound like he was judging him. “Therefore, I suggest that we both go into town and you get yourself a prostitute or at least a lap dance. If nothing occurs out of the ordinary, then I shall cut my losses upon chasing you, and you can go home to happy parents being the heterosexual self you’ve been expected to be.”

This deal seemed almost perfect.

“You make my parents sound like villains brainwashing me.” Mick stated, trying to pretend he wasn’t sold so easily. However, Spy saw right though him with that smile of his.

“I cannot deny your father sounds like a real _gentleman. Very_ polite. I honestly wonder how you two are related.” The Frenchman laughed.

“I seriously wonder that myself. So we go into town for a night and get back here before work?” Mick asked, trying to make himself believe that this would work.

“ _Only if_ you talk to Engineer.” Spy reminded.

“Deal.” Mick said. They shook hands, and Mick was surprised that the grip was pleasantly polite, but businesslike.

“We get caught breaking terms and orders, I’m blaming you.” Mick warned.

“I understand, mon amour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *“Beyond the Sea” is a famous song and had many covers. A couple of the most famous ones were done by Frank Sinatra and Bobby Darin. If you have seen "Finding Nemo", the end credits play the same song, only sung by Robbie Williams. ( personal note, that is my favorite version and always makes me think of Sniper ^^)


	8. Losing You Both

Mick felt the tension eat at himself as uncertainty drove nails into his stomach.

“I changed my mind, lets go back.” He said quickly.

“Non.” Spy proclaimed firmly. “We are already two thirds the way there. No turning back.”

Mick grumbled and sat lower in his seat.

“Quit acting like a child. It’s not like I forced you to dress nicely.” Spy jibed, his own tension showing.

“Just be glad I didn’t wear plaid.” Mick joked, hoping to lighten the mood a little.

Spy snorted.

“I would’ve _forced_ you to wear a suit if you _dared._ ” Spy muttered. “Spoken to Engineer yet?”

“Nah, he seemed pretty pissed last I saw. Wasn’t going to bother him. Besides, I decided to make sure you keep your part of the deal first.”

“Fair enough.”

The ride to Teufort was otherwise silent, as both men were thrown into their own set of thoughts, similarly anxious about what would become of the evening’s findings. Eventually, when they pulled into town, Spy parked right beside a dinky building, with two large men about the same size as Heavy.

“ _This_ is a brothel?” Mick asked as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Best in town. But don’t get your hopes up, its quite a dump in comparison to what it should be.” Spy responded.

“You sound like you know by experience.” The sniper observed.

“I did some research. I wasn’t about to take you to a place where they don’t use protection against diseases.” Spy said, giving him a look. He took out his disguise kit and chose one that was not anyone on the team. It was a stranger.

His disguise was that of a Masculine man with wavy blonde hair and angular jaw. He had green eyes and tan skin. He sort of reminded Mick of some of those surfers he came across every once in a while back in ‘Straya.

Mick followed Spy’s lead as the European strolled up to the two large men, handing them both hundred dollar bills. They opened the door for them and Spy casually entered with his head held high, Mick on his tail.

He didn’t look at anything until Spy forced him towards a couch.

“Get comfortable while I get us a brandy.” He said, walking in a direction. He was still using his French accent, which threw Mick off, but he didn’t comment.

Mick swallowed hard as he took a seat in the smoke filled, dimly lit room covered in red cushions and golden tassels. Everywhere there were hanging beads, cheap alcohol, and lots and _lots_ of scantily dressed women. The music was deep and sensual, an innuendo to what they expected the clients to pay for. Spy returned from the bar in his disguise and handed him a brandy.

“It’s atrocious, but we’ll make do.” He said in disgust at the alcohol.

“You claim to have been to better brothels?” Mick asked, taking the glass. He knew it was a stupid question, but at the moment, he was sure he had made the _worst_ decision of coming here, and just wanted to postpone the agony when it came. The last time he dove headfirst, he got kissed by the man next to him.

“Of course I have!” Spy sniffed. “The ones in Paris are far classier, and the wine is finely chosen. Here, all they have is harsh and poorly made liquor.”

“Poor made stuff may taste bad, but at least it gets you smashed.” Mick said, trying to keep the conversation going. If a whore saw that they were talking, then maybe she wouldn’t approach.

“What on earth would make you say such a blasphemous statement!” Spy shot at him. “Do not tell me you only drink to get ‘smashed’ as you put it!”

“I don’t.” Mick assured. “I just learnt the hard way when I was younger. I got really gone when me dad started making homemade moonshine. He wasn’t good at it at first, but eventually he got the hang of it. But those first few liters of the stuff, bloody hell, they tasted worse than sheep piss. But it _did_ make you pass out quick.”

“How old were you?” Spy asked, curiously.

“Fourteen or fifteen. I remember, because I had just started going hunting by myself…openly, that is.” Mick added the last part with a smirk. Spy chuckled.

“Well, I propose a toast. To you and your heterosexual self.” He said mockingly, tapping the glass against Mick’s before drowning the contents down his throat, his Adams apple bobbing. Mick was about to say something when he nearly had a heart attack as a woman dressed in a playboy bunny costume, complete with the ears and corset with the tail, stood right in front of them. She bent over so that her well endowed chest touched her arms, pushing her breasts upwards better than any pushup bra in the world. Instead of offering herself, however, she was offering a box, opened with two sections.

“Cigars? Cigarettes?” she asked, pursing her lips out in a slight pout. Mick declined, shakily saying he didn’t smoke. Spy however, graciously took a cigarette.

“Only to be polite.” He said once the girl had moved to the next group of men. Mick watched as she was groped by the men, hands squeezing her thigh, tail, and ass. She giggled them off, but Mick could see it. Her eyes were dead. He turned away, feeling sick to his stomach.

Spy looked like he was about to call out for assistance, but Mick stopped him with another conversation.

“Do you ever look at them?”

“Pardon?” Spy questioned, turning back to him.

“I mean, forgetting their skinny waists, big parts, and flexible bodies…you ever actually _look_ at them?” he asked.

A pause.

“There was once a girl I met in Vichy after the war.” Spy began. “She was a prostitute, and I was there for a mission to find any hiding SS officers. You see, some would hide in plain sight, and there were enough officers missing from the files that the leaders hired spies like me to play fetch. We were paid by the number of men we took in. In any case, this girl was my contact, and information source. She willingly told me every single officer in the district, where he lived, who his friends were, and where they had gone. She said that she was tired of seeing German pigs walk the streets as if they owned the world as free men, and begged me not to take them to the Nuremburg trials, where they would be given a chance at life. She wanted them dead with a bullet between their eyes.”

Mick looked down at his brandy and rubbed the rim of the glass with his thumb.

“What did you do?” he asked quietly.

“I turned in those men at Nuremburg, as ordered. Once I received my payment, I went into their cells and blew their brains out.” Spy said casually, motioning to the bartender for another brandy.

“So…” Mick pressed.

“That was the only time I ever saw a prostitute as a normal person over a sex worker.” Spy continued, trading his empty glass for a full one, sparing a small “merci” to the bartender. “She became a whore to support her five children. Her husband was killed in the war, fighting for the resistance. In her own way, she was building her own resistance by having relations with those Nazis.”

“You ever have sex with her?”

“Non. There was no need. In any case, she was still _very_ married to her husband, and I felt more of a friendship with her. Why deface that with sex that isn’t necessary?”

“Did you ever see her again?” Mick asked curiously.

“Non.” He said sternly. “She had no desire to see me after the job was done.”

“Why not?”

“Because I told her I would not kill those men.”

“But you did.”

“Oui, but if I had told her that I would, then the employers would ask if she knew anything. She would have to lie. They find out otherwise, we both would be in trouble. And where would that lead? Her five children, on the streets, orphaned. Better to let her hate me, and all of them be safe.”

Mick smiled, letting a genuine one slip past. He couldn’t help it.

“It’s funny…I would’ve never guessed that you care so much.” He murmured. Spy chuckled.

“Believe me when I say this, mon amour. You’ll find that I care more than you know.” Spy said softly, patting his shoulder. He looked ahead and sat back on the couch.

“Now, to the matter at hand.” He said, a business tone coming to his voice. “We came here to get you a girl, and that is what we shall do. Have you decided what you want?”

“I-er…I haven’t really thought about it.” Mick admitted.

“Alright, you are going to have to work with me.” Spy sighed. “Lets start with the basics. Do you want a mouth, a hand, or a body?”

“I guess to really know…a body?”

“Bon. Now, do you prefer any specific attributes?”

“I don’t…”

“Hair type, eye color, body shape?”

“They all look the same to me.”

“ _Just pick one.”_ Spy exasperated, moving his arm in a sweeping motion. Mick raised his hands in surrender and drank from his glass, wincing at the taste. He could see why Spy hated it. He looked all around the room and eventually settles with a woman about his age, with brown hair and a petite body shape. He was going with “less is more,” but he realized that was a wrong assumption when she came up to him after they make eye contact.

“So, how would you like a fuck, Clint Eastwood*?” she asked, her “Cali-Gurl” tattoo on her thigh shoved into his face as she perched a leg in between his knees. No subtlety here, that was for sure.

“Do I pay you now or later?” Mick asked, almost in a squeak, but passed it off for choking on his drink. She was having none of it.

“Great, a shy 40-year-old virgin who can only get laid by an entertainer. Welp, you get one every once in a while.” She said sarcastically. “You pay me in the room, Clint Eastwood.”

Mick nodded and drowned the drink down just as Spy had done with his first, standing up.

“After you.” He said, motioning for her to lead the way. She rolled her eyes.

“Even better. The 40-year-old virgin is polite.” She said snarkily.

“And efficient.” Spy joked, winking at Mick. Mick sighed and gave him his empty glass.

“You getting a sheila?” he asked.

“Non.” Spy said casually. “I am going to sit at the bar and wait. While a woman is tempting, I am currently pining for someone. Leaves a bad impression if I go off and have a Madame in my lap, non?”

“Ok, I admit, that makes sense.” Mick agreed, but then paused. “So what does that make me?”

“It makes you a straight man with no consequences. Shoo. Your woman looks impatient. Impatient prostitutes are lacking prostitutes.” Spy said, pushing him towards the petite call girl. Mick nodded and felt his stomach sink further and further into an abyss as they walked further and further into the building. After a quick detour down a side hall, she pulled him into a room and closed the door and locking it.

“I assume you didn’t forget your wallet.” She said pointedly, holding out her hand.

“How much do you charge?” he asked getting it out.

“I charge by the hour. Two bens.”

“Two what?” Mick asked in confusion.

“Ben Franklins. Hundred dollar bills?” she informed, talking to him as if he were stupid. Mick’s mouth went to a tight neutral line

“Ok, lets get something straight.” He said, getting irked. “I haven’t done anything against you, I’m paying you, and I’m not from this country, much less _hemisphere_. The least _you_ can do is be polite.”

“I’m giving you my body. Often times that’s all we have left to our name.” She snapped. “How much more _polite_ do you want?”

A pause.

“Look, I’m not here to tell you how to act in your career, but if you want my cash, you’re going to have to be less snarky.”

“Then why the _fuck_ did you _accept_ my offer?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

“I don’t bloody well know! I thought it would be rude.”

“Wasting my time is more in the category of rude.” She countered grumpily. “I’ll send some other girl. One who is more ‘ _polite’. You_ , don’t go anywhere.”

She turned and marched out of the room, muttering obscenities as she went. Mick sighed and looked around the room, taking in the décor. Once more, plush red fabrics, black sheets, stained carpet from god knows what, and golden tassels with crystal. He was just about to sit when the door opened.

A girl he hadn’t seen before walked in and closed the door behind her, locking it as well. She was a dirty blonde with an average build and a plainer face than the previous girl. She had considerably less makeup on, and more covering her body. But what scared him was just how young she looked. Probably Scout’s age.

“You just had Adria, right?” she asked, her voice confident, but meek.

“If you mean miss attitude and nicknames, yeah.” Mick responded stoically. The girl sighed.

“Adria is…a character.” She said. “Very cut and dry.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” He said, feeling a little less intimidated. She nodded and looked him up and down for a moment.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“Just call me Mundy.” Mick said, tossing his wallet from hand to hand. She nodded.

“I charge 20 for a HJ, 40 for a BJ, and 80 for a home run.” She said.

“Not even going to tell me your name?” he asked, getting out 80 dollars.

“People call me Ti.” She said, a small grin making its way on her face. “Like the musical note or a drink-”

“With jam and bread?” he finished, joining her with the polite grin as he gave her the money. She chuckled.

“I love the Sound of Music*. Julie Andrews* is a wonderful singer.”

“Only saw parts of it. And those parts were actually pretty good.”

“Not much of a musical fan?” Ti asked, counting the bills.

“Not much a fan of _movies_. I prefer the outdoors.”

“That why Adria call you Clint Eastwood?”

“I suppose…”

Ti hummed and put the money in her own handbag and looked up at him.

“So, what’s your preference?” she asked. Mick looked to the side.

“Whatever works best for you…” he said, unsure how well this was about to go down. Or rather, how _not_ well this was going to go down…if that made any sense. Ti nodded and pushed him to sit on the bed.

She then knelt in front of him and slowly palmed him though his pants, looking up at him.

“So, Mundy…” she began. “Adria tells me you’re a virgin…that true?” Ti slowly unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, taking his member out. She stroked it with her manicured hand slowly but firmly, wetting it with her saliva. Mick, who had hoped that he would feel something by now, was still getting nothing. He wasn’t even _remotely_ attracted to her.

Just as he feared.

“Stop.” Mick said, pulling her face away from his crotch. “I…I am not getting anything, it’s not your fault. It’s me. I-I’m sorry.” He said, beginning to stand. She pushed him back down.

“We’ve barely started.” She reasoned. “What you need to do is relax and let it come, ok? You’re really tense for some odd reason.”

Mick breathed out of his nose and laid back on the bed.

“Lot on my mind, recently.” He muttered, resting his hands behind his head. He let the girl try and get him going in any way she knew how, and no matter how much he relaxed, and no matter how much he told himself that it would come, nothing came. After a solid twenty minutes of nothing, Ti stopped and stood, looking over his disinterested manhood, perplexed by this abnormality.

“Do you need a pill or something?” she asked.

“I’m perfectly capable of getting hard…it’s just…” he tried but gave up, and sat straight.

“Alright, I’m going to lay it on you.” He began. Ti sat on the bed next to him. “I never felt anything towards anyone my whole life. Not really. But then I came here to the States for work and met my colleague…well, I started noticing how uninterested in women I seem to be, but as soon as he comes to mind, I’m a typical teenager. Where I’m from, I _can’t_ be gay. So this is…sort of a test for myself on my sexuality. I-I’m sorry if you feel that I used you or-”

“Save it.” Ti cut him off, holding up a hand. “It’s my job to be used. Besides, we have another issue.” Here, she pointed to his manhood. “I say we try again. Only this time you close your eyes and pretend it’s your coworker. That way, you _really_ will know.”

She knelt in front of him once more.

“That actually works?” Mick mumbled.

“I’ve had men come in here and ask for a tomboy getup, asking me to keep my clothes on and then demand anal. I can add two and two.” she said, moving her hand on him again. “If they can pretend, then anyone can.”

“There aren’t any gay bars or brothels here?” Mick asked, still looking down at her. Ti chuckled and shook her head.

“Nah. Try Europe. I hear anything goes, over there.”

“Really?”

“In comparison to the religious background I had back in Bee Cave, Texas? Yep.” She said. “Now close your eyes and start imagining.”

Mick sighed and laid back on the bed, closing his eyes and thought about the spook. He thought of the way he acted; the way he so casually went through battle as if it were a breeze. He remembered how he kissed him, and wondered if he would kiss him the same way of they were together in this situation. He thought of how sensual Spy spoke his mother tongue, and how he would talk to him in bed in the moments of erotica. It was strange to think of Spy in such a way, but his body wasn’t complaining. In fact, he was already hard.

“You, uh…mind not using too much of your hands? The nails break the image…” Mick requested, his quickening breath coming through his voice. No response, which Mick was thankful for. Instead, the girl just did as he asked, and Mick bit his lip as pictures came to his head of Spy doing this to him instead. It felt so dirty, so wrong, but so _good._ He knew he had to accept this for what it was; he was gay. And he was attracted to the infuriating French Spook. It was laughable, actually. Here he was having his first blowjob, and he was imagining that the girl giving it to him was a certain French rogue that he worked with.

Mick couldn’t hold it and gave out a loud groan as the girl’s only warning before he came. Eventually, when he floated down from his high, he felt the weight next to him on the bed. He turned his head and saw that she was sitting cross legged next to him, looking down at him with a triumphant smile, no sign of her earlier actions other than a small bit of spit on her chin.

“Had a feeling that may work. So, what’s the verdict?” she asked.

“Well…I guess, that means I’m pooftah.” Mick sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. No point in denying it anymore. “And I’m in serious shit.” _And oddly I’m not too bothered by me accepting me as I am…odd._

“That I can understand.” Ti agreed, nodding slowly. Mick narrowed his eyes.

“Why?”

Ti was quiet for a moment.

“My brother was homosexual.” She admitted. “Our parents thought there was something wrong with him mentally. He would be a little older than you, I’d say…back during the war, it was normal for gays to be put into insane asylums for treatment. My parents still believed that to be the best thing, and found an asylum that could take him. But I got a letter in ’67, four years later, that he died of Tuberculosis, right before the entire place went up in flames. Literally. We were never allowed to visit him, and any record or memory of him, was destroyed.”

Mick sat up and fixed his clothes, frowning.

“I’m sorry…” he said. “Not all memory is lost of him if you can still remember him.”

Ti laughed lightly, allowing herself a grin.

“He used to be able to solve a Rubik’s cube in twenty seconds. Puzzles were his thing. Once Peter got a jigsaw, you couldn’t pull him away. Even for meals. He was so smart…” She said, trailing off.

“Can’t say I know the pain of losing a sibling, since I’m an only child. But…Me dad wouldn’t get it. He threatened to kill me at twelve if I ever turned gay.” Mick confided, getting up from his seat. “I think it’s safe to say I’m never going home.” There was a pause before he remembered something.

“You said you were from Bee Cave?” he murmured. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

Ti shrugged. “People pass through every once in a while. Maybe you heard of it because one of your buddies went through as a pit-stop?” She said, grabbing her wallet.

“Here.” She held out forty dollars. “You only owe me half, since I just gave you the BJ. Next time be sure of what you want.”

Mick took the money.

“Most girls don’t pay back?” he asked.

“Not going to lie, its not uncommon for one of us to cheat you. But I get your problem, and it’s only fair.”

Mick nodded and pocketed the cash.

“Quick question, Ti…” Mick asked, walking to the door. The call girl looked up at him.

“Is there anything…you need? I mean…do I have to do anything for you?”

Ti stared at him in bewilderment before she laughed.

“Oh sweetie… _that’s_ why Adria called you a polite virgin…you pay _me_ to do a favor. Not the other way around. But if it makes you feel better, I enjoyed myself. You quite possibly have one of the largest cocks I’ve taken. Couldn’t even deep throat it. You definitely don’t have to worry about pleasing your man. I’m actually jealous.”

Mick walked back with a burning flush of embarrassment on his cheeks, feeling sick to his stomach. What was he going to say to Spy? What was going to happen now? Should he lie? Should he-

_What the bloody hell!?_

In all Mick’s experiences as a sniper, and dealing with people of power and class as employers, he never would’ve guessed that Spy would’ve joined their numbers of being completely _shameless_ when drunk.

Spy was on the bar counter, jacket, vest, and dress shirt gone, lying on his back with his tie still on. He was chugging on the bottle of brandy that he scoffed at in the beginning of the evening, and he showed no sign of stopping. Everyone else in the room was paying him no mind, with the exception of the bartender, who looked lost as to what to do. Mick stepped in.

“Spook?” Mick asked, shaking him a little.

“Hrm.” Spy grunted, rolling over on his side.

“Spook. Get up. We have to go.”

“ _You are so sexy right now…”_  he laughed in French. Mick sighed and pulled him off the counter, dropping him on the floor.

“Where’s your fucking wallet?” Mick growled as he searched the abandoned suit jacket. The bartender waved his hand.

“Just take the sobbing mess!” he snapped. Mick rolled his eyes and threw the shorter man over his shoulder, walking out with him after picking up his discarded clothing. He walked down the street and got to the car fishing the keys out of Spook’s coat pocket before tossing him in the passenger seat. The Frenchman chuckled in his awkward position with his face on the center armrest of his sports car. Mick got in the driver’s side and adjusted the mirrors and seat before putting the keys in the ignition and putting his car into drive.

For the first few minutes, there was silence. After they hit the highway, Spy moved a little towards Mick and placed a hand on his thigh, making the driver tense but keep his eyes on the road.

“ _I don’t want to lose you either…”_ Spy murmured in French.

“Spook, I can’t understand you.” Mick said.

“ _Don’t leave me, Michael…don’t leave me like this…”_

_“_ Spook, please. English.” Mick said, his voice wavering as the hand slid across his crotch. His grip on the wheel tightened, and he thought seriously about pulling over, so he didn’t crash the car.

“I thought I could let you go…” Spy pleaded. “I cannot…lose you…you stayed back there so long…”

Mick was stunned into silence and gulped. It was obvious that he was an emotional drunk, but he never expected that he would be the source of all emotion. But the spy continued.

“I believed…I _hoped_ that you would come my way…but every moment you stayed there…with that woman…I knew I had lost you…just as I lost him…”

The Australian quickly found a flat place where he could pull off the road and parked there. Once he had turned off the car, he pulled the spy up into a sitting position and facing him properly. The disguise fell at last and revealed the distraught Frenchman. Spy had disabled it with a lazy drunken hand. Mick’s hands were holding him up so that their faces were level and their eyes were perfectly aligned.

“Spy…who else did you lose?” Mick asked seriously, hoping that he wasn’t playing with him all along, and wasn’t using him as a pickup after the spy had been dumped by another. Spy swallowed and touched a gloved hand onto his neck, looking like he was in physical pain.

“My son…I lost Logan…I lost my son…” Spy whispered.

Mick didn’t know what to feel. Relief or sadness.

“Scout…It’s my fault I lost him…”  he finished, his head dropping to rest against Mick’s chest.

Relief flew out the window in an instant. Dread and sympathy took its place.

“Bloody hell…” Mick exclaimed in shock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Clint Eastwood is an American actor who often starred in western films (such as Two Mules for Sister Sara). His style of attraction was rugged very much “earthy”, and was called a “man’s man”.
> 
> *Sound of Music is a movie that stars *Julie Andrews, who plays Maria, a governess leaving a convent to care for the Von Trapp family children pre WWII in Austria. The sound of music remains as a classic.


	9. Complicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *doesn't bother looking at the calendar to see how long its been since updated it'll scare me nonetheless*
> 
> Hi

The Spook was asleep in the backseat. The exertion of revealing his pain was too great for the intoxicated Frenchman, and other than making a mental note that he was a lightweight, Mick felt stuck. He knew the way back, and he knew how to get in without being seen. But fact of the matter was, he was in too much shock.

Scout was his son?

Just how did that happen? Alright, he knew _how_ that happened, but how they met, what is the relationship, and why he left was all up in the air. He sighed and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel of the car, unsure what to do.

They didn’t have work tomorrow, since it was Sunday, but they couldn’t come in the morning without arousing suspicion. Mick tapped his head against the wheel a few times before making his decision. Putting the keys in the ignition and making sure Spook was secure, Mick pulled back into the road silently.

It was a good thing that the base was quiet and that no one had decided to stay up late. Except for that one light in the window. Mick knew by its location that it was Medic’s lab. Of course the old man would be awake. However, that wasn’t so much of an issue if he was busy with something. Hopefully he was. Mick parked the car by his camper so he could have a short distance between them, and the door to the rec room. He figured that if the rec room door opened, someone would assume it was him going inside, and it wouldn’t make anyone wonder. Once he had safely parked the car and shut it off, he made quick work to drag the spy out of the car and out into the desert sand. The Spook didn’t wake up. He was still sleeping, quietly snoring.

Getting him into the rec room turned out to be a harder ordeal than he imagined. Sure, he had helped blokes get home in the past when someone had too much to drink, but they never had passed out to sleep before. They actually would lean on him and he would help them walk in a straight line. But this time, it was like carrying a body. That, Mick didn’t take into consideration. Spook wasn’t heavy per-say. More of, he just wasn’t being helpful being all limp like that. He ended up dragging the man by the armpits through the door and down the hall, something heavy being dragged being the only sound.

Which is why when Mick heard a, “Mrph mrphh-mrph mruhm?” Mick just about shit himself.

“P-Pyro?” Mick whispered shakily, no longer able to look at the “mumbling abomination” in the eye after what he heard from Spy. “W-what are you doing up?”

Pyro turned their head to the side as they seemed to question him of the same thing without speaking. Mick swallowed hard and tried to feign normalcy.

“Mrmphmrph.” They responded.

“Wot?” Mick squeaked. Pyro gave out a small groan as it dramatically rolled their head.

“Mrdrc.” Pyro stressed.

“Medic?”

“Huddah!” The firebug gave a thumbs up. If there was one thick Mick could not understand, it was how Pyro seemed to make their mask _smile_. Mick nodded slowly and looked around. Pyro turned their head another direction and saw Spy better at another angle.

“Mrmphmrph huddah hurr?” They asked, pointing to the sleeping spy, who was in the middle of snoring. Mick glanced between the pointed glove clad finger and the spy on the floor.

“Uh…he um…” Oh for Christ’s sake, _why_ didn’t he think to come up with a story for this situation if it ever came up!? “He fell asleep in the rec room?” he said, more making it a question than any statement. Pyro stared at him silently for about a minute as Mick began to sweat rivers and feel that they had been caught out.

“Hrmum.” Pyro muttered before they waddled away down the hall and away from the two men of different consciousness. Mick thought it odd as the pyro was walking funny, as if they couldn’t quite get their footing. Mick tried not to think about that as he thanked whatever god was up there that could just continue to drag the man down the now deserted hallway and into the smoking room.

Once in, he flung the Frenchman onto the couch with a grunt, grumbling about how the Spook was too heavy.

_Done_.

* * *

 The morning sun was not to Mick’s liking, but he supposed he could live with a teeny headache. His shades diverted most of the damage, so that part was a blessing. But if he had one lousy cheap bourbon, and he had a small headache, he didn’t even want to _think_ of what horror Spook was going through.

_Well, since it was partially my fault, I guess I should go check up on him._

He entered the base silently and twisted though the halls and tried to find the smoking room on the first go. It turned out to be easier than he expected, but that was not what was important. What was important was that Spook released such extreme and volatile French from behind the closed door that Mick was sure he was going through hell. He didn’t bother knocking. Instead, he decided that coffee and greasy food was in order. That’s how his dad treated his hangover after finding Mick stupidly drunk from the early brews of moonshine at such a young age. It didn’t cure him, but it certainly helped.

When he returned to the rec room, Engineer was making toast with the Pyro. upon seeing the firebug, his heart stopped as he realized that Pyro very well could have told Truckie what they saw last night. He tried to retreat, but Engineer saw him.

“Hey, Stretch!” he called. Mick frowned, but turned around and joined them.

“You have an ok night?”

“Yeah…” Mick murmured, beginning to make coffee.

“Mumbles here says that you and Spook were up late. What happened?” Engineer asked, cutting right to it.

“Yeah…he…he’s hung-over right now. I found him drinking.”

“Drinking? Good God, why?” Engineer said in surprise. “It ain’t like him…”

Mick thought about what he had said and felt it was not his place to say. Instead, he recalled how Spy wanted him to speak with Engineer about Pyro and why he was getting involved.

“Before he fell asleep in the rec room, I managed to get a few words out of him.” Mick stated. “But it…well, can I talk to you privately about this?”

Engineer’s eyes flicked back and forth between Mick and Pyro before putting a hand on Pyro’s back.

“Py, in my workshop, there’s a magazine I’ve been saving. I think it has comic strips you can read.” Engineer said gently. Pyro was gone in a flash.

“What’s going on?” he continued.

“Spook said Medic sent him off base to get Pyro’s medical records and diaries. He…well, Spook being a spook, he read them. So now he’s…well, terrified of Pyro _and_ paranoid about what Medic plans on doing.”

He watched as Engineer’s face went from shocked, to frustrated, to downright _pissed_ by the end of his speech, and sighed heavily.

“Doc has gone too far…” he muttered.

“What’s he doing? And why Pyro?” Mick pressed.

“Pyro had a frontal lobotomy which has reduced the age factor in the brain to 6 or 7 and given various degrees of schizophrenia.” Engineer prattled off.

“Wot?”

“Pyro is missing half of the front part of the brain, and now isn’t right in the head.” He translated.

“Someone can live without some of their brain?” Mick asked in surprise.

“Oh yeah.” Engie nodded. “I ain’t no biologist, but people can live without some of the brain. It ain’t all required.”

“Well…uh, I guess he’s just worried that he may have given Medic a way to make Pyro more dangerous.” Mick offered. The reaction from Engineer was a hostile one. His body tensed and his hands tightened and looked sideways at the Australian.

“What do you mean _more_ dangerous?” Engineer growled. Sniper gulped and backed away a little.

“Well…I mean…Oh come on, Truckie, someone who enjoys fire as much as Pyro does, they ain’t someone I’d invite for tea! I mean, what if Pyro snaps?”

Engineer sighed and seemed resigned to take his logic. He shook his head.

“You _would_ think Pyro to be dangerous and unstable.” He admitted. “But he ain’t. He don’t even _see_ fire. Pyro isn’t killing because he _fancies_ it. He thinks it’s a game. Or at least how he treats it. he doesn’t just _snap_ either. He avoids trouble at all costs, and doesn’t kill out of malice often.”

“‘Often’?” Mick emphasized.

“He mentioned that he hates liars and people who try to hurt me. Best bosom friend right there. That’s the only time he will willingly go after someone.” He said.

“That why he hates spooks?”

“Nah he don’t hate spooks. He actually liked them because they use fire too. All that smoking they do…nah, the only way you know if he don’t like you at all, is when he uses his fire axe. He says it ain’t fun taking someone’s life with that thing. Whereas with fire, it is.”

Mick was silent before pouring himself a cup of the now finished coffee.

“Ok, so…we don’t have anything to worry about with Medic?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Engie muttered a little peeved at the mention of the German. “Mumbles is happy the way he is. And that damned psycho medic won’t very well leave him alone! Py is determined to go to him! He’s convinced Doc’s got good intentions!”

“And he probably don’t.” Mick inferred.

“ _Exactly_!” Engineer groaned and tapped his fingers on the counter. “Stretch, I really don’t know what Doc plans on doing exactly, but his intent ain’t in the right place. And I’m not going to stop Pyro from doing what he wants. I’ve already said my concerns, but Pyro won’t hear it. I can teach him how to write and spell and do basic math, but I can’t be his conscience.”

Mick sighed and decided that was enough information to satisfy Spook. His end of the deal was done. His thoughts were interrupted when Engineer leaned back against the counter top.

“You say Slim is hung-over?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Mick said, glad they were off the subject. “Pretty bad too. Passed by his smoking room when I came here for the restroom. He sounds like he’s in a shit storm.”

“Well, my dad knew how to make someone feel better.” Engie mentioned.

“Yeah, mine too. Greasy food.”

“Really? Yours too?”

“Yeah. What, you get smashed at 14?” Mick asked, chuckling.

“Ah, no.” Engineer laughed. “But he had me make greasy fried eggs and bacon every morning after he got drunk.”

“Oh…” Mick fell silent.

_Well that was awkward._

But Engineer was not bothered by it. Instead, he looked up at the taller man.

“How bout I make ‘em. Though it ain’t his type of food, it may help.”

“You good at it?” Mick asked.

“Been a while, but I’ll give it a go. I remember you said you had a hard time cooking on a stove.”

“You try cooking a 500 Kilo croc meat in a pan.” Mick joked, chuckling a little. Engineer smiled but made no comment. It was at this moment where Pyro returned, a magazine triumphantly being held. Engineer chuckled as the firebug settled beside him and began to read.

_“FOOOOOD!!!!”_

Everyone jumped at the sound and they were given a solid millisecond before a very familiar young Bostonian flew out of the hall and dove straight for the kitchen. Mick was able to avoid anything unpleasant, and ended up grabbing the kid around the waist and lifting him off the ground, stopping him from climbing all up and down the Texan.

“Common man! Let me at it!” Scout whined, struggling in Mick’s grip.

“Son, you gave me and everyone else a damned heart attack!” Engineer scolded. Pyro folded their arms and grunted in agreement. Scout rolled his eyes.

“Well I smell food, and I-”

“Yeah, you grew up with seven brothers who took the food away from the baby brother. We get it.” Mick said in annoyance, putting the kid down. “But it ain’t for you.”

“Huh? Who’s it for?”

“Spook.” Sniper growled, pushing scout into a counter stool. “He’s got a hangover, and sounds like the devil is walking among us.”

“That bad, huh? Might as well not drain half the grease from the bacon, then.” Engineer muttered.

“ _Spy? He’s_ getting first dibs?” Scout exclaimed in disbelief. It was then that Mick felt very _very_ awkward and embarrassed. This was the same person whom Spy claimed to be the father to. And Scout was none the wiser. He was unaware, and that made the interaction between himself and the youngster all the more awkward.

“Yes.” Engineer snapped, cutting off Scout’s would-be tirade about the Frenchman, before he even began. “And its only because he is hung over and I can’t stand a hung over person who is madder than a rattlesnake and don’t know how to handle himself!”

“Mruh murhmuh!” Pyro added on.

“And those who are too loud in the morning.” Engineer translated

“Too bad, freakshow! I am- _what_ _the_ _actual_ _fuck_!?”

Said “freakshow” had lunged over the countertop, grabbed the Bostonian by the ear, and dragged him to the couch where he was shoved harshly onto. He then received a long stream of angry and demeaning muffled words that sounded too much like a scolding to be taken as anything else, before the firebug walked away and took up the abandoned magazine. Scout growled and crossed his arms angrily, surprisingly staying put on the couch. Mick glanced at Pyro in slight disbelief, and was about to say something when the two explosion-happy men of the team walked into the room.

Soldier was hugging his helmet close with that familiar raccoon inside of the makeshift bowl as he chatted away about Lt. Bites. Demoman followed and was listening intently to what the other was saying. Mick shook his head and let him to it. However, as he was “ignoring” he couldn’t help but hear a few words that were a little odd.

Can opener. Refrigerator. Front yard. Cable ties. Sour cream. Merasmus. Wizard. Kill me, come back stronger pills. Heart medicine.

Mick decided to stop listening. However, Pyro decided to socialize with the soldier, practically begging to hold the little animal. Soldier proclaimed that he bites, and should not be held by mutants. Pyro seemed to deflate in their suit but Engineer quickly stepped in.

“Hey buddy. How would you like if we made cookies later?” he asked, patting the firebug on the shoulder. Instantly, Pyro stood up straighter and turned happy once more, taking their magazine and continuing. Mick sighed and tried to pry his mind away from his teammates and their strange ways. Although, as soon as the bacon was finished, who should show up but Medic himself.

The tension in the room skyrocketed as Engineer lost his casual nature and replaced it with weighted and short movements. Everyone in the room noticed the change and reacted accordingly. The weight of the air became heavy and distressed. The only one who paid no mind, ironically, was Medic himself. Mick was starting to believe that this man was perhaps oblivious.

Mick resigned to ignore. He ignored everything quite well. He had perfected the art of ignoring when he really wanted to. His talents of sniping targets were secondary to his ability of focus and almost tunnel vision, much like him looking though a scope. When his food was finished, all he wanted to do was run away, leave without another word, nor any attention on himself. That was not to be. The damned Medic just _had_ to speak to him. Even worse was that he offered something. Mick, after knowing about his previous exploits to patients, had no desire to trust Medic. As politely as he could manage, he declined and walked out.

The food looked greasier than he ever could manage, and he was silently thankful that Engineer did it rather than himself. Also, if the spook rejected the food or called it disgusting, then he could just pass the blame to Truckie. He made a mental note to do a favor for the Texan next chance he got. And the coffee…well, it was already a bad brew, but whatever.

When he got to the door of Spy’s smoking room, he was surprised to find that all was silent. It was so quiet, one might presume the man residing was dead. Mick was almost scared to knock on the door. Almost.

“Spook?” He called somewhat quietly, knocking twice. There was a growled response and a few choice words in French right after. Mick sighed.

“Common mate, I can’t understand you. I brought brekkie. It’ll make you feel better.” Mick said tiredly. There was a pause.

“Enter…” Came a moan. Good enough. Mick made sure he opened the door slowly so that light from the hall didn’t suddenly blind the other man. She slowly closed the door as well and found it nearly pitch black in the smoking room. Mick couldn’t blame the poor bloke, but dammit, how was he supposed to see?

“Spook, I can’t see anything. You don’t think you can-”

Before he could finish his sentence, a lamp clicked to life and flooded a corner of the room full of light. Spook was slouched on the sofa with an arm over his eyes, still shirtless and partially sticky with sweat. His mask was still on and it reeked. He could smell it from ten feet away. Mick resigned to be silent about that.

“How you feeling?” Mick asked, taking a seat on the coffee table.

“Get off.” Spy growled, pointing to the so called seat. “That’s oak.”

Mick frowned and kept a straight face.

“I didn’t have to bring you brekkie, and I don’t have to be nice to you.” Mick responded stiffly, but getting up all the same. He moved to the arm of the sofa that was by the Frenchman’s face.

“What the hell happened, mate?” Mick asked.

“You left. I drank too much.” Spy said simply, albeit grouchily.

“And you also were sobbing on my shoulder about your son and myself.” Mick commented.

Spy didn’t move nor give any relation other than silence.

“I do not recall-”

“Said he was Roo.” Mick cut him off. “Our Scout. Wanna explain things to me?”

Spy again didn’t move.

_“Non. You would not understand.”_

“English, spook. I can’t-”

“No, I will not explain.”

“Why not!?”

“You are being nosy and loud! And I have a _headache_ in my _head_. And I do not want to be bothered!”

“Where else _can_ you get a headache*!?” Mick asked incredulously. “And you can’t just drop something like that to a bloke and then expect him not to ask questions!”

“I would not say the answers to _you._ You are not close to me and have no right to ask them! If you were a part of my life then, oui, the answers are yours!”

“You mean the thing we tested out last night?” Mick asked.

“It does not matter.” spy said softly “You were with that girl, and the answer is clear. Now please have the common decency to remove yourself from my presence. It is too painful at present.”

Mick closed his eyes and sighed, putting the dishes on the coffee table.

“It ain’t clear, Spook. Yeah, I was back there but I…I didn’t feel attracted to her. It wasn’t until I thought of someone else did anything happen. And it wasn’t a Sheila that I thought of.”

_That_ got a reaction out of Spy. He slowly sat up and stared at the Australian, his eyes focused but squinting from the light.

“You…but-”

“Nah. Eat.” Mick said, shoving the plate of the now room temperature greasy food into the Spy’s hands. “Truckie made it.”

Spy looked down and wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sight.

“But-”

“No complaining. If I did it, they’d be charcoal.” Mick interrupted again. Spy sighed and took up the bent fork before beginning to eat. At first he was slow, precise, and full of manners. However, with each bite, he grew a little more ravenous, eventually slouching over the plate and losing the pompous act. Mick tried to keep the smile off his lips. When he finished, Mick took the plate from him and grabbed a teacup from a small cabinet on the wall before pouring the coffee into the delicate china, handing it to Spy.

Spy sighed and took it, silently sipping on the bitter liquid.

“Merci beaucoup, Michael…” he murmured. Mick shrugged and just watched him for a little while before Spy turned his head this way and that, seemingly trying to get a crick out of his neck.

“I do not suppose you still have questions?” he asked tiredly, still slouching with squinted eyes.

“I do.” Mick responded immediately. Spy grunted and looked at the lamp, the only illumination to the room at the present moment.

“Could I trouble you in requesting 24 hours to think over the events and gather my bearings?” Spy asked slowly, every movement forced and sluggish.

“Uh…sure…I guess…take you that long to get over the horrors*?” Mick asked.

“If you mean a hangover, no. Just three or four hours.” Spy corrected, sighing. “But all the same, I must consider what I will say and what I will not say and decide how to proceed.”

“Bloody hell, I am not asking ye to _marry me!_ I just want to know how ye got Scout as a son and why you didn’t stay!”

“Mon amour, _please.”_ Spy groaned. “This is not easy for me, and you were never meant to know until perhaps much later.”

“Until much…” he trailed off. “You were going to tell me anyway?”

“Assuming that we would _be_ something, oui!” Spy snapped before rolling over. “It would only be fair that you should know. But considering that we are _not-”_

“Oh, stop being an ankle biter throwing a tantrum!” Mick cut him off. “I only just now figured out that I’m Fag and can’t ever return to Australia without getting me own head shot off by me father! Sorry if that _doesn’t_ make me want to get a boyfriend just yet!”

“Get out.” Came the chilling hiss. Mick stared in shock.

“Wot?”

“Get out of my smoking room.” Spy repeated, moving his hand in the cushions as if he were looking for something. “Or else you wont have to go home to get shot in the head.”

Mick sighed and placed the coffee pot on the side table and started to leave.

“We will discuss the essentials tomorrow. Until then, I do not wish to be disturbed.” He heard behind him as he closed the door. Mick could only shake his head and trudge back to the rec room to return to his camper.

So he was being grumpy. Not that surprising when you are hung over, but he couldn’t shake the thought that Spy was being too dramatic. Just as he was about to delve into the matter further, Scout ran by him and skidded to a stop in front of him.

“Hey man! Mail finally came!” he said, holding up a box with a bright smile. “I think Ma sent me her cookies!”

“That’s great.” Mick said, trying to sound happy for the youngster, and not be downed by the fact that Spy was involved with his birth.

“Yeah? Oh hey! Almost forgot!” the Bostonian reached into the back of his pants and pulled out a letter. “I fetched yours for ya!”

Mick’s eyes widened before taking the envelope. It was in his mother’s hand.

“Thanks mate.” He said, looking up at the kid, only to find that he was already jogging away. No matter, he had reading to do. Right there in the hall, he tore open the letter and stared at the neatly printed words on the page.

However, with each sentence he read, the sadder he became.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Headaches can also happen in the stomach, back, and other parts of the body. Medically, it is more common than most people think, often caused by stress, a change in environment, and or malnutrition.
> 
> *horrors- Australian slang term for an extreme hangover.

**Author's Note:**

> * Starbucks opened over 80 locations in Eastern Australia only to have most of them shut down. The reasons stated in the reports were because of over building with not enough consumers and poor pricing. That, and the cafe culture in Australia was already doing well, there just wasn't enough room for another line, and a foreign one at that. I also took a little too much liberty for this, because Starbucks didn't open in Australia until the year 2000, and this fic is in the 1960s. Oops. As for Mick’s bashing of the stuff, this is just Mick's personal opinion, and does NOT reflect all Australians’ opinion of Starbucks products. I, however, fit the American stereotype and live off Starbucks coffee.
> 
> * The Australia depicted here is mostly to fit the Team Fortress 2 universe, and DOES NOT in fact reflect the people there. I'm so SO sorry, my Australian readers. I promise, one day I'll go to your fabulous country and apologize in person if I offend anyone. I'll go cry in a corner now.


End file.
